M E S S Y
by JazzyCat
Summary: Life is messy sometimes. But he's hurt. You need to give him a reason to live, Bella. ExB. After her mother commits suicide, Bella decides to volunteer in a suicide prevention help program, talking to those who have tried before. Her first? Edward Cullen.
1. Prologue

**M E S S Y  
pRoLoGuE  


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Did you know that every sixteen minutes, someone commits suicide? Did you know that eight to ten percent of all attempts are successful? One in four people will become clinically depressed. Twenty percent of those people will kill themselves.

Men are four times more likely to take their own lives. Four times more likely to actually do it. Women, however, try three or four times more often.

People between the ages of fifteen and thirty-four are successful in one out of a hundred attempts. People over that age are successful one of four times.

One in twenty five attempts are successful.

Race and ethnicity also makes a difference. Hispanic female high schoolers have the highest recorded attempt rate at fourteen percent.

More people died from suicide than murder or drunk driving.

32, 000 Suicides a year.

89 a day.

One every sixteen minutes.

Common signs or warnings include feeling hopeless or having no reason to live, talking about death, seeking revenge, being angry, feeling trapped, withdrawing from friends and family, insomnia, mood changes, being reckless, giving away one's possessions, and threatening to kill oneself.

Most common methods are overdosing on pills, drowning, suffocation, electrocution, using a gun, hanging oneself, jumping from a window, driving a car off a cliff or into a wall, or slitting of the wrists.

My mother killed herself that way. And I was the one who found her like that. In the bathtub, water stained red. My father was never the same again.

Most people don't understand what kind of an effect that will have on others after they're gone. They tend to focus on their own pain, getting rid of it rather than getting through it. Because of the media and social stereotypes, it does matter if you're black or white, if you're make of female, or if you're gay or straight.

My name is Isabella Swan. And I am a victim of suicide


	2. Chapter 1

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 1  


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"Bella, I don't want you doing this." Charlie had been arguing with me all morning; ever since I told him of my plans for the summer.

I set another stack of pancakes on his plate and reheated the syrup for him. He accepted it and started eating, but, unfortunately, it didn't deter him from talking.

"Bells, this could mess you up. Now, I don't want you to have to go through with this, commit to this, and then decide against it later. I don't want you to be a quitter, Bells, but more than anything, don't want you to be miserable."

I ladled more batter onto the griddle and watched as it bubbled. "I won't be, Dad."

"Listening to other people bitch about how terrible their lives are? I'm sure that'll—"

"If anything, that'll make me happier for what I have." I flipped the pancakes and looked over at him, waiting for him to say something. I counted down in my head.

Three, two, one…

"But, Bella, be reasonable…"

"I _am_." I finished the last of the batter and turned off the burner. I let the pan sit on the stove and cool off while I shoveled a few pancakes onto my own plate and sat down. Charlie pushed the butter and syrup my way, and I nodded my thanks. "I'm being completely reasonable, Dad. This is seriously what I want to do!"

"Bella, there is no way that this could benefit you!"

"It will look good on my college applications."

"College apps aside," he was gesturing frantically now, "the only thing this will get you is depressed. Bella, I refuse to let this happen. Not when I can stop it."

"Why is it that other people can be depressed, but I can't? And who even says I'm going to _be_ depressed?"

"Bella, I won't let it happen to you because _you_ are _my_ daughter. I'm in charge of you. You're in my care. And I'm your father. I want your happiness."

Now I was starting to get a little mad. Charlie wasn't even _thinking_ about looking at my side of things. If this kept up, I was going to have to break out the big guns.

"Dad…I will be happy helping other people. Why can't you understand that?" He speared the last few bits of pancake and swirled them around in the syrup pooling on his plate.

"I understand that you think that, Bella, but you'll change your mind about it later. I guarantee it."

"Dad, I'm no quitter."

"Really?" He sounded amused. "Because if I remember right, you quit ballet after three weeks. And karate after two. And you stopped your swimming classes after one session. And—"

"Okay, I get what you're trying to say, Dad, and you needn't go further." That was already too far. "But those are completely different. For one thing, this doesn't involve physical activity. Other than walking around, I'm in no danger of hurting myself or other people, and for _another_ thing, this is something that I really want to do! I will be helping people!"

He was getting angry, and I could tell that it was serious, but I was pissed off too.

He slammed his fork down on the table. "Bella, no! If the previous reasons weren't enough, then I don't want you around these potentially dangerous people! If they can hurt _themselves_ what makes you think they won't try to hurt you?"

"Dad. Please. I've considered all of this before. I know the risks, but the benefits outweigh them by so much! You don't even know! These people are mentally unstable! They need help! And since no one else wants to, I'm going to. I'm volunteering, and you can't stop me."

"You're only seventeen, I'm still legally in charge." He had me there, but I already had an escape plan. I pursed my lips, finished the last of my own breakfast and then took both of our plates to the sink and started washing.

"That as may be, but I can still persuade you."

He snorted. "Not likely. I've made up my mind." I slammed the plate I was holding into the sink, and pieces flew onto the counter. I hadn't meant to break it, but it added to the effect.

"I'm trying to prevent what happened to us from happening to other people! I don't want anyone else to have to go through that pain! The family members of these people have already heard 'suicide attempt' and I'm sure they don't want to hear 'successful suicide' too! No one wants to walk in on someone they care for only to find them dead on the floor with a gun in their hand or an empty bottle next to them! No one wants to walk into their house expecting to see their mother, and instead finding a bloody body in the bathtub! No one wants to have their family torn apart because some father out there wouldn't let his daughter help someone through their pain!"

My voice was high—hysterical, almost—as I was recounting our own troubles; the ones we'd only just gotten over a year ago. I was staring directly at him, daring him to challenge me.

He suddenly looked very tired.

"Fine, Bella," he conceded. "Do what you want."

I cleared my throat, and started to clean up the mess I had made. "Thank you," I said shortly.

And I left as soon as I was done cleaning.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I handed in my volunteering application and paid for the training course with my own money. Since I was a victim myself, I didn't have to pay attention to most of it—I'd heard it all before, from a counselor my grandmother got after my mother's death. When they got down to the practical stuff, I perked right up, contemplating taking notes, but deciding against it.

The man who was teaching us was on the short side, and stout. His hair was graying, and wrinkles were beginning to set in his face. His eyes were those of experience, and I could tell that he had been through a lot in his life. It only made me respect him.

He opened his mouth to introduce himself, and as soon as he started speaking, I felt at ease. His was a voice that did not intimidate, only relaxed. It made me feel welcome, wanted. I wondered if this man talked to the suicidal as well.

"Welcome. First of, I'd like to thank you. If you're here, then you want to make a difference to someone. And even if they won't thank you for it, I want you to know that your efforts are appreciated."

He went on to tell us that his wife committed suicide twenty years ago, and that was why he'd started this particular group, after moving to the little town of Forks. He had us all introduce ourselves and asked us why we were volunteering. I was surprised to see that a majority of the people here had close friends or relatives that had killed themselves as well. I wasn't the only one who thought they could help by being understanding.

The one person who stood out to me the most was a boy named Mike. When he introduced himself, he didn't say "I'm here because my father died," or "I'm here to honor my best bud," or even a distant uncle. The words were much more meaningful.

"I'm Mike," he said. "And I'm here because I've tried to commit suicide."

I think my breathing stopped for a second.

"I wanted to join this group because I have friends who showed me that life is worth living. And now I want to be able to do that for other people. I understand where most of them are coming from, and that's why I think I can do this."

There was a small round of applause for Mike.

It was an hour long class for one whole week, and the time was almost up. The man informed us that we would meet, same time, same place, tomorrow.

After everything was over, the man in the front of the classroom leaned against his desk and took his glasses off. He held them in one hand as he looked out at us.

"Now, I know you want to help," he said to us—there were only about ten or eleven people in the room, including myself—"but I want you to know something. No matter how much you want it, sometimes you can't help them. Sometimes, there's nothing more you can do. Sometimes, they really don't have a reason."

There was a heavy silence in the room, creating such a tension that it was almost hard to breathe.

But I raised my hand.

"Yes?" The man asked.

"I don't believe that," I said.

"And why is that, Miss Swan?"

"Because, I believe that just by being a friend, you've given them a reason."

I wanted so hard to believe it as much as I said I did. But then again, my mother had killed herself. She had me, she had Charlie. A husband and daughter who loved her. Wasn't that enough?

The teacher seemed intrigued by my words, however. He said "interesting," and nothing more. He dismissed the class. I grabbed my things, and filed out behind everyone else. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice Mike talking to me.

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**A/N: The statistics in the prologue are a bit outdated. I couldn't find anything more recent than mid 2007, so please excuse that. Also, excuse the fact that Edward hasn't come into the story yet. He'll be there. But I'm not sure you'll like it. **

**To answer any questions you might have, this is somewhat of a suicide awareness fic, but it didn't start out that way. I just came up with a brilliant plot idea, and decided to do a little research on the subject. That research is why I use this to spread awareness of suicide prevention. Please read, review, and be aware of those around you, those you love. And those you don't know. Do what you can to give them a reason to stay alive.**

**Thank you.  
**


	3. Chapter 2

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 2  


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The next week went by very quickly. Charlie was still mad about the whole thing, so we didn't talk much during dinner—the only time I really saw him all day—and I just went to my training classes.

The first day was all statistics. I already knew most of them; I'd done a little research of my own after mom had done it. Once we got past that, our teacher—Mr. Banner was his name—got down to business.

In order to successfully help these people, we had to become someone that they could talk to, that much I knew. Mr. Banner spent all the classes teaching us the correct things to say, trying to emphasize that choosing our words carefully was crucial.

"You can't act the way you do with your friends," he informed us. "You want to make them comfortable enough to trust you, but you can't talk the same way. For example," at this point he gestured to a random person in the audience. Today, it happened to be me. "If Isabella was depressed, possibly suicidal, and having relationship troubles, and she came up to you with advice, what would you say?"

Someone would raise their hand and give an answer. More often than not, he would have to correct them. Today, however, no one raised their hand.

"No one knows?" Still nothing. "Alright then. Let's have a little interaction. Bella, could you come up here, please?" Shyly, I stood and moved to the front of the room. Mr. Banner pulled another random person up there with me.

"Okay, now, Bella, the circumstances are the same. You're depressed, and your boyfriend has been acting suspicious. You are talking to Lisa here, who is your volunteer. Just act normally, like it's a conversation you'd have any day."

Hoping my face wasn't too red, I looked over at my partner for this exercise. She stared at me intently, smiling encouragingly, as if she really was helping a suicidal person. I cleared my throat and began quietly.

"So, Lisa, I, uh, wanted to talk to you about my boyfriend."

"Give him a name," Mr. Banner instructed. "To make him more real." It was a little stupid, but I saw where his logic stemmed from.

"My boyfriend, Joe. He's been acting a little weird lately. And it's starting to scare me."

"What's he been doing that has you scared, Bella?" Her tone was helpful, sweet, and comforting. I felt very at ease with her, and I imagined she'd be the best of all of us.

"He's, um, been a little distant recently. He doesn't talk to me as much, and he doesn't ask me out as much. I'm beginning to think he's losing interest." I thought I would finish it there, but decided to go the extra mile and added, "I don't know if I can handle that." I glanced quickly at Mr. Banner, who was nodding in approval, much to my relief.

While I knew what it was like to be family of the deceased, I didn't know how the suicidal person would act. This was completely foreign to me, and I was only hoping I was acting real enough.

"Bella, you're a beautiful person. I can't see how he would be losing interest."

"But if he is," I pressed. "What can I do to change his mind?"

This was where Mr. Banner stopped us first. "Excellent, Bella," he said. "That was very realistic. And a great point you brought up. _If_ he _is_ losing interest. Now, what would you say to a friend?"

A girl in the back of the room piped up. "Probably tell her to give him some space and see where things go. It won't help things if she's clingy."

"Yes, but what else?"

"Well, you might tell her that he might not be the right one. So, if he does leave her, then it's not her fault, and he wasn't worth it."

Mr. Banner seemed content with the answers he was given, and he turned back to Lisa and I. "Please continue ladies. Bella, to take it even further, you're going to tell her that you've caught him cheating." He sat down again, and I took that as my cue to start.

"Lisa, it's gotten worse. I gave him some space, but I think that's only made him more distant. And…" I paused, trying to quickly think of something.

"What is it, Bella?"

"I caught him…with a friend of mine." My words were rushed. "Her name is Lauren. And, although we're not friends anymore, not after that, we were kinda close once. I guess that only makes it worse. I just don't know if I want to bother with this relationship with Joe anymore. I mean, he doesn't love me enough to stay with me, so…"

"STOP! Thank you. You two may sit back down."

Mr. Banner once again took the spotlight in the front of the room. "Now, I like the way that Isabella worded that, because wording is everything. What might you say to someone who asked for advice on that relationship?"

The same girl from before raised her hand. "I'd tell her to end it."

I closed my eyes in embarrassment for the girl. She sounded so…well, I didn't know what she sounded like, but that was wrong. Definitely wrong. In fact, that was pretty much the worst thing you could say to a suicidal person.

Mr. Banner told her that, but more gently. "Never, _never_, use those words." He was addressing all of us when he said that.

But I already knew.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

After the week of training, I didn't feel like I'd learned anything at all. Part of it, I supposed, was because I already knew so much. Another part was that Mr. Banner was teaching us the facts more than what to do in practice.

We were going to be dealing with people who had tried to commit suicide before. I was scared, because not only was I not prepared, but I didn't want to mess up. Because if the person I met—the person I was supposed to be helping—did end up killing himself, then his family would be devastated.

And it would be my fault.

But I had to learn to swallow my fear. Whoever he was, he was more important that I was. I was going to put all my energy into this, and I was going to do it right.

At the end of the last class, Mr. Banner congratulated us on finishing the course, and told us that if we met in the room tomorrow—even though we had no more classes—then we'd be gathering to watch a therapy session from a more experienced volunteer. It was, however, optional. And I opted not to go.

Although there might be certain ways that were approved, I was going to make my own way. I was going to forget protocol, and instead do what I had to do to make that person's life worth living.

That was top priority.

Mr. Banner also said that afterward, he would be setting us up with the people we would be helping.

At last!

My palms got sweaty when I heard that, but I was excited to be able to do something. I'd show up for that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I was headed out to my beat up truck in the parking lot outside the community service center after class when I heard him calling me. My hand was no the door handle, but I paused and turned.

It was Mike.

"Hey Bella," he greeted. I smiled a greeting, happy that he remembered that I preferred to be called Bella. Mr. Banner hadn't seemed to be able to.

"Hello Mike." I tightened the collar of my jacket around my neck against a sudden gust of wind. After a moment, when Mike still hadn't said anything, I spoke again. "Was there something you needed to say?"

"Oh, right, haha." He chuckled awkwardly and looked at his shoes as he scuffled them across the pavement. "I know we've only known each other for a short while, but I was wondering if maybe you'd like to…go out sometime?"

I was, admittedly, a little surprised to hear that. Since my mother died, he was the first person to ask me. Anyone else was too afraid that I would take it wrong, or they sincerely thought I was insane and wanted nothing to do with me. I was grateful for his interest, but didn't return it.

"Thanks, Mike. That's really sweet of you to offer. I'd like to say yes," I hated seeing his face drop, "but I'm still a little hurt from my mother's death. I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to start dating yet." My mother's death was not the real reason for turning him down. I just didn't myself with him that way. He was a nice enough guy, but I'd known him for seven days, and he wasn't my type. I wouldn't mind him as a friend, but anything more was just…wrong.

"Oh." He looked crestfallen. "I see. Well, I understand. That's got to hurt." He had a small light of hope still in his eyes. "But if you ever change your mind, or need someone to talk to yourself, you've got my number."

I nodded, remembering the slip of paper everyone had received with the contact information of everyone else. At the time, I had to suppress a laugh; it all seemed a little too AA to me. But I was certain that I would be glad to have it at some point.

Or I would hate that Mike had it.

Either way, there was no taking it back. I said a quick goodbye before ducking into the shelter of my car, and starting the engine. Mike walked back to the building, and I waved as I drove away. He shot me a smile and waved back. Then I turned the corner.

Something about this just felt right. I loved being able to volunteer, though I hadn't always been that way.

It might have just been a change of character brought on by a traumatic event or something like that. It sounded professional, but it basically meant that I might have changed because my mother died.

And that might be right. Because if she hadn't, I wouldn't have been hurt. I wouldn't have felt that pain, and I wouldn't have thought to try to prevent it by preventing suicide. Before my mother died, I never even thought of suicide, even though it plays such a huge role in society, with the statistics rising every year.

I'd never been one for praying, either, but I prayed to my mother right then, thanking her. Even thought I missed her terribly, and I wished she hadn't done it, I thanked her for making me strong enough to turn my pain into a way of helping people.

I ride in silence, not even turning on the radio. I liked it better that way. My house was a five minutes drive when there was no traffic, so I was home in a jiffy, pulling into my driveway. I fixed dinner for Charlie, finished the few chores I had around the house, and tried to read a book for an hour while Charlie watched some sport thing on the TV downstairs. I tried, but I couldn't get into it. I was too distracted.

Tomorrow, I would be getting my first "assignment." Tomorrow, I would meet a person who was broken, alone, and in pain, and I would try to help.

I had mixed emotions on the whole thing, but one question kept surfacing: would I be able to help them?

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**A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews, but I have a confession. I think I may have gotten in way over my head on this. Don't get me wrong, I have every intention of continuing this, and if writer's block doesn't hit, I plan to see it through to the end. I just think this is kind of a touchy subject out there, and I perhaps, am not being as sensitive as I could be. I'll warn you now, I've never been suicidal, nor have I known anyone who killed themselves, or even tried. I might not fully understand this stuff, but I'm trying. Part of being a writer is having an imagination. I know the pain of losing someone, and that is what I'm basing everything off of. But I don't know what this is like. There are levels to this that I haven't even touched. The entire matter scares me so much that I'm not sure I want to do this story anymore. But I will. I've started it, and I'm going to finish it.  
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**I'd like to thank you if you've read this far, and thank you again if you read my Author's Notes (even though they're so long XD). Once again, I'd like to apologize; if I get something wrong, please don't flame me, yell at me, or abandon this story. I don't know everything about this, so not everything will be right. **

**I'd also like to thank slmCandle for her review. Thank you for your offer, slmCandle****. I hadn't planned on doing anything from the other point of view, but I will definitely ask you if I have any questions. And I'd like to say this to you--and to anyone else out there--that if you have times when you just need someone to listen, you can always come to me. I know you don't know me, and I don't know you. I don't fully understand what you're going through, but I have listened to my friends before, and have ranted myself, on occasion, and I know just how much better it makes me feel. I just want you all to know that I'm here, as cheesy as that sounds, if you just need to talk. I will gladly keep up the reviews! I love your support. IF YOU HAVE ANY TIPS FOR ME: Please PM THEM DO NOT LEAVE THEM IN A REVIEW. It's more for my own organization.  
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	4. Chapter 3

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 3  


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To my horror, I woke late the next morning.

My alarm hadn't gone off, and I knew _exactly_ who to blame for that. I'd let him off the hook for now, but Charlie was going to hear it later.

I jumped up and ran for the shower, cranking it to full blast and getting in when the water was still cold. I washed my hair quickly before I got out the loofah. I was liberally applying body wash—like the bottle says too—when the heat started to kick in, and within moments was unbearable.

But by then I was finished.

I got out, dried off wrapped the towel around my hair and sprinted back to my room. My clothes had been laid out across my computer chair—my favorite dark blue blouse and tan slacks—but had somehow mysteriously disappeared. My brow furrowed as I thought of Charlie again, adding another item to my list of Reasons to Yell at Charlie. I grabbed my black slacks and a deep red top instead, tossing them on the bed while I pulled on my undergarments and used deodorant. I yanked the towel from my head and started the blow-drying process while brushing my teeth. Then I threw on my clothes, grabbed my wristwatch, and headed to the kitchen.

It was too late for breakfast, so I shoved a granola bar in my back pocket for later, grabbed my shoes, and headed out to my truck. It roared to life after a few turned of the key, and I was off.

By the time I got to the community service center, the demonstration was over, and I'd arrived literally just in time to receive the information of the person I'd be helping.

The rest of the class was there as I ran in, and Mr. Banner was about to start explaining. Breathless, I sprinted to the back of the group and tried to be quiet enough to hear what he was saying.

"In the folders I have here are the records—or what you're allowed to know about them—of the people that, for the rest of the summer, you will be spending time with." He read off our names, and we came to the front to collect our folders.

"Now, we'll be driving to the hospital, since most of the people in these folders are still there. If yours has an address in it, that's where you need to go instead. Everyone else, hop in your cars and follow me. If you need a ride, I've got my van."

I decided to get in my truck before opening the folder. I already knew where the hospital was, so I didn't need anyone to lead me there, and if I was going to someone's home, I didn't need to follow them to the hospital. I climbed in behind the wheel and buckled up before I looked at the papers.

His name was Edward Cullen. He was my age. He was still at the hospital, though his discharge had to be soon, since he'd been admitted almost a week ago. If they were planning on putting him in the psyche ward, they would have already done it. He had a family, though it didn't state if they lived nearby or not.

The last thing the file said was how he'd tried to kill himself.

He used a razor, and he slit his wrists.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

His method had almost sealed the deal—I'd almost gone back up to Mr. Banner and handed the folder back, saying this was all a little too sudden for me. But I reminded myself that the reason I'd joined this was to prevent this from happening. So I took a deep breath, closed the folder, and started off to the hospital.

When I got there, Mr. Banner had the class there in a group, waiting for everyone before we departed. I only counted six people, including me, and then one more person showed up and we were ready to go. Everyone else, it seemed, had an address to go to.

"Alright, gang," Mr. Banner said, as if this was his last bit of advice. "Remember your training, and take it slow; this is the first meeting, and it's not uncommon for things to go poorly. More often than not, the person you're trying to help doesn't _want_ your help, but don't get discouraged. And remember! Be careful about your wording." He turned, then, and led us inside.

The group walked up to the front desk, and while Mr. Banner spoke to someone there, I was looking around, taking in my surroundings.

It had been a long while since I'd last been here, surprisingly enough. I was a very clumsy person, and used to fall down stairs a lot, or trip over flat, smooth surfaces and fall on my face. I'd broken my arm once, and cracked a rib, but that was years ago, and the place had changed a bit.

The shiny white floor tiles were new, the halls had been repainted. The furniture looked more modern, newer, cleaner. There were pictures of classic paintings lining the walls, and, from what I saw, in every room as well. It was a more visitor friendly place, but the sterile stench of hospital was the same as ever. I wrinkled my nose.

The woman at the front desk directed us down a hallway that led to a little nurse's station in a small hallway that she said was 'the home to all of those poor people.' Conveniently enough, they were in the same hallway. We headed down, and I tried not to look into the rooms with open doors.

Once we were at the nurse's station, we once again explained who we were, and who we were there to see. One of the nurses checked the charts to all of the patients, and Took us one by one to the room that corresponded to us. I was, of course, last.

The nurse was tall and pretty, even with her hair pulled into a simple ponytail and little to no makeup on her face. Under her scrubs I could make out her shape and I could see that it was much more appealing than mine.

So I couldn't understand why—when we walked into the room with "EDWARD CULLEN" on the sign by the door, and the nurse introduced me—his eyes never looked away from me.

"Edward," the woman said, gesturing to me. "This is Isabella. She's here to talk to you."

I gave him a shy little wave and a smile, still hooked on the fact that he was staring at me and not the beautiful nurse when he himself was gorgeous—godlike even—with thick, bronze hair, striking green eyes, and fair skin, paler than any I'd ever seen before, but that could possibly be from blood loss. His eyes never left mine and I was starting to feel self conscious, and then he opened his mouth to speak.

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**A/N: Thanks once again for all your continued support for this story. I love hearing reviews. Good ones are my favorite, but it's also great to hear from people with suggestions of offers of help. It really does make a difference. I love that you're so interested in this story. I'm sorry this chapter is so short, but I felt it ended at a good place. I might be able to get out another chapter tonight, but if not, rest assured it will come tomorrow. I'd like to wish everyone Happy Holidays in advance, and thank you all once again for reading, reviewing, and being there to help me. :) It really means a lot.**

**P.S. Edward came in this chapter! Too bad he hasn't spoken yet XD  
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	5. Chapter 4

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 4  


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"What are you looking at?" He said sharply, breaking me from my daze. My jaw dropped as I thought of an answer—nothing sounded any good in my head, so I didn't end up saying anything—and the nurse looked at me sympathetically.

"Well, I'll be going back then. If you need me, give a shout, or the call button's over there." She pointed to the small computer next to Edward, monitoring his blood pressure and oxygen, but also having an array of brightly colored buttons adorning the top.

And then she was gone.

Edward and I were alone; he was lounging gracefully across his bed—looking amazing even when he was ill and presumably unwashed—and I was standing awkwardly in the corner of the room, wringing my hands. He was still looking at me, something like sarcasm and bitterness marring his features.

"So?" He said again. "Are you going to answer me?"

"I'm…sorry?"

"I asked what you were looking at."

"Um…well, you." He eyed me again, as if I'd just said something stupid. I mentally slapped myself, realizing that the question was probably rhetorical. He rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Well, stop it."

I remained standing, since he hadn't invited me to sit, and tried to introduce myself. "Hello, Edward, I'm—"

"I know who you are." He said. "The nurse just introduced you." I could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "You're Isabella what's-her-face who's come to see me from that little group without a name, and try to talk to me about my problems."

"Bella." I interjected. He looked at me as if I'd grown another head.

"What?"

"My name is Isabella, but I prefer to be called Bella."

He was quiet once more, staring at me. I could feel a blush rise up on my cheeks and I shook my hair out from behind my ears to try and hide my face a little.

Edward snorted. "Well, whatever your name is, you're still here for the same reason. I can tell you right now, I'm not interested in talking. So you're wasting your time. You might as well just go home now."

Tempting, I thought, but remembered my resolve. I wasn't walking out of there that easily.

"You say that now, Edward, but we've only just met. I'm sure you'll change your mind once you get to know me—"

"I don't _want_ to get to know you," he cut me off, his voice rising in anger or annoyance. I had to admit that one stung a bit. "I don't want to get to know _anybody_! I want to get out of this damned hospital, go home, and _die_! And no one here can understand that! And don't pretend that you can, either! Because you can't!" His eyes were wide, his face looked frantic, and that was the first I'd noticed that his wrists were swathed in gauze. I should have known, since I knew what he'd done, but it was shocking all the same. Edward seemed to catch on, seeing where my gaze was going.

"Does it scare you?" he asked, voice low.

In truth? Yes. It scared me shitless. I was afraid because this beautiful boy was so upset that he would consider taking his own life. He hadn't sought help, hadn't talked to anyone, or tried to resolve his problems, but had instead just taken a blade to his arm and tried to end it.

I was scared because he'd almost died. I was scared because he'd almost destroyed a perfection that I couldn't even begin to adjust to. His face was blinding, even when he was furious and screeching.

"Yes," I told him. "But I'm not scared _of_ you." I took a step forward and looked to his face to gauge his reaction. He was staring incredulously, and hadn't seemed to notice I'd gone toward him. I risked another step.

He sank back into his pillows. He didn't look defeated, but he was brooding. His eyes flickered back my way every once in a while.

"What is it?" I asked when his eyes stayed there. He didn't answer. I decided to drop that subject and instead pointed to a chair next to the bed. "Mind if I sit down?" I asked, trying to sound cheerful. 'positivity' was encouraged. 'If you have a positive outlook on life, then maybe it will rub off on the less optimistic.' Direct quote from Mr. Banner, I swear.

Edward looked up at me and then at the chair. He crossed his arms across his chest, leaned back into his pillows again, and shrugged. I took that as a yes and sat, thanking him with a bright smile.

"That. Is. So. Fake." He said.

"It hurts, too." I dropped the smile a little, to the point where my cheeks weren't aching. My face was a little more natural now, but I still tried to look like I was happy to meet him, though I was becoming less so by the second.

"You were trying to be funny right then, weren't you?"

"Not intentionally," I shrugged. He just looked at me again, and then away, out the window. The view wasn't very pleasant. But then again, neither was his mood at the moment. I tried striking up a conversation.

"So, Edward. What kind of music do you like?" He stayed quiet.

"What's your favorite color?" Nothing.

"Favorite food?" More nothing.

"Favorite flower?" I could almost hear the crickets mocking me.

"Favorite book?" Silence. I waited for a while and started wringing my hands nervously when the silence stretched past five minutes. "You know, you could answer me, I told him. "You might not want to get to know me, but it would be polite."

He sighed, and his head fell back against the pillow. He faced the ceiling, eyes closed, muttering something about "stupid Mother, raising me right," and then…

"Classical. I prefer classical, but I can get into anything that's not rap. I don't have a favorite color, though I guess blue is nice. My favorite food would be…I dunno, peanut butter and jelly? I'm not picky about that. My favorite flowers are freesias, but don't you dare tell anyone. Any my favorite book? I don't have one." He spoke in such a rush, and then there was silence again. I was about to ask more meaningless questions when Mr. Banner poked his head in the door.

"Isabella? Time to go." I nodded and turned back to Edward. He was smiling smugly, happy to see me go.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Edward." I grabbed my jacket from the arm of the chair and headed for the door.

"Don't count on it," he told me. "I'm feeling rather miserable, I don't know if I'll last." I could tell he was mocking me. He dramatically threw one arm across his forehead and pretended to faint.

"I'll be back around the same time., but I'll have more than thirty minutes then." I smiled again, blinking back sudden tears as I walked out the door, closing it behind me. I rushed past Mr. Banner and down the hall to the lobby. The group was not far behind me. I rushed through the revolving doors and straight to my truck. I got in behind the wheel, buckled up, started the engine, and cried with my forehead against the steering wheel while the roar of the engine drowned out my sobs.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We were told to meet back at the community service center to discuss how the first day went after the hour was up, so once my eyes were dry, I pulled out of the parking lot and headed back that way. I turned on the ancient radio to distract me while I drove, not wanting to have to think about things yet.

The drive was short, so I was pulling into a parking spot sooner than I would have liked. I pulled down the visor from the top if the car and looked at my face in the mirror. It was a little puffy still, but the redness was going away. I pressed my cool fingers to my temples to speed up the process and made sure I looked normal before getting out of the car. I hurried into the building and joined my group—most of them had beaten me there.

"There you are, Isabella! We were worried for a second!" I nodded in acknowledgement and took a seat. The discussion was just beginning—it seemed as though they had been waiting for me.

"So, how was everyone's first meeting?"

A chorus of "okay"s and "good"s ran through the room. I didn't hear a single person say "bad." I myself had piped up with a soft "fine."

"Well, that's great! I'll be here if you'd like to talk privately with me, but you can also talk to your peers, because remember!" I hated when he said that. It always meant he was bringing up something he'd said before, something he thought would be super-useful. "It's just as important for us to talk as it is for them." He sat into his chair and smiled at us, waiting for someone to join him. When no one did, he decided to call someone.

Me, of course.

"Talk amongst yourselves, people, I'll just start a little chat with Isabella."

I got up from my seat and moved as fluidly as I could to the chair across from his.

"So, how was it?"

"Fine."

"Are you sure? You seemed upset when we were leaving. Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

"No, it went very well. He was polite, but a little shy. I can understand that, though." It felt strange to lie for him. I wondered why I was doing it. I barely knew him, and he'd made it clear that he didn't _want_ to know me. We would never become friends, so I should have just told Mr. Banner the truth.

But I didn't.

That had to mean something, right?

"So you weren't upset?" He leaned forward to try and study my face. I put on my best fake smile.

"Really, I'm okay. It was just a little hard for me, since Edward…well, Edward tried to kill himself in the same way that my mother succeeded. It was a little difficult remembering. That's all."

"Well, if you're sure."

"I am." I snuck a peek at my watch and gasped. "I'm so sorry, I've got to go. I need to get home and get dinner started for my father. He'll be getting out soon and we usually eat right when he gets home."

Why was I explaining myself to him?

I grabbed my jacket, waved goodbye to the class, and left without another word. I hurried to the truck, drove home quickly, and started digging around the pantry for something to make, hoping for—and finding—a little box of spaghetti and an old can of sauce. That was good for me.

I was humming one of my favorite tunes—Clair de Lune—as I waited for the water to boil. I poured in the spaghetti and watched it roil around for a few minutes, my thoughts racing.

Hadn't Edward said he'd like classical? I wondered if he liked Debussy. It was my mother's favorite too. Perhaps I'd bring a CD and play it for him. Or maybe I could burn him a classical compilation when I found out what his favorites were.

Drops of water were falling into the pasta water. I didn't notice it then, because my eyes were blurry with tears.

* * *

**A/N: Another new chapter! I really like this one. There's a lot of Edward. :) Please R&R, but I'm going to bed. It's 3 am (I must be lonely).**

**Haha, sorry. That's one of my favorite Matchbox Twenty songs. You should listen to it. It brings a smile to my face. Music seems to just do that for me.  
**


	6. Chapter 5

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 5  


* * *

**

The next day, I woke up, rolled out of bed and walked downstairs for some breakfast. Charlie was already up, eating a plate full of friend eggs and bacon. I grabbed a piece off his plate before rummaging through the cupboards for cereal. Lucky Charms. Mmm. My favorite.

I sat down and started eating, not thinking of anything in particular, until Charlie cleared his throat meaningfully. I didn't hear it the first time, and just kept on chewing. He did it again.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Dad. You need something?"

"I was just asking how the, uh…program was going." He moved food around on his plate without eating it. One eyebrow was raised. I knew what he was getting at.

"It's going _great_." I put emphasis where it was needed. "I _love_ what I'm doing. It's very rewarding."

"I see." He was quiet as he took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down. "Is that why you were crying yesterday? When I came home?"

I nearly dropped my spoon. I hadn't heard him come in until long after I was done. My face couldn't have still looked puffy, could it?

"I wasn't crying. Whatever made you think that?"

"Maybe it was the _crying sounds_ that I heard when I walked in. Bella, I told you this wasn't good for you! You've only been in it for a week and you're already crying over pasta? I'm pulling you out of this—"

"No!" I shouted, maybe a little more loudly that I'd meant. "It wasn't the program. I… stubbed my toe when I walked in the door. And it hurt. Really, really badly. That's all." He didn't believe me, I could tell by the look on his face. "Dad, really, it's no big deal. I don't want you to be worried. I can handle myself. I'm a big girl."

He looked like he wanted to argue more, but I gave him a little pout and he dropped it. I smiled, picked up my now-empty bowl and put it in the sink. On the way back to the stairs, I stood on my tip toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Daddy."

I raced up the stairs to take a quick shower, then dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt—yellow, since it was sunny outside, and I wanted to reflect on that rare occasion—and pulled my slightly-damp hair up into a messy bun with tendrils of hair falling unintentionally around my face. I didn't bother with make up, just a little chap stick for my dry lips. I figured 'hey, if Edward doesn't care what I look like, why should I?' He was the only other person I planned on seeing that day.

I took one last look in the mirror to make sure I didn't look absolutely ridiculous—sorry, female instinct—before grabbing my things and leaving, shouting out a goodbye to Charlie over my shoulder. I remembered that I still needed to yell at him for hiding my clothes.

Ah, but later.

I decided not to go to the community service center—which I had nicknamed the Center, because I didn't want to have to think out that long name every time—and just head straight to the hospital. I already knew where Edward's room was, but I'd wait for the rest of the group, just in case.

I didn't have to wait long, either.

Mike was the first to arrive. He waved as he approached, and took a seat next to me in the small row of chairs by the door. I tried not to groan in annoyance. Mike was nice, but sometimes a little too cheerful, and almost _always_ too clingy. I still pretended I was happy to see him.

"Hey, Mike."

"Hi, Bella! How are you today?"

"Fine, and yourself?"

"Great!"

I found it hard to believe that this boy had tried to kill himself. He seemed so sincerely happy all the time; happy and carefree. I couldn't imagine what problems he'd had in his teenage life a few months ago that he didn't still have.

"So, who do you have?" I asked him. He instantly knew what I meant.

"Someone named Eric. Maybe you know him? He goes to Forks High." I shook my head. I didn't know him, but I'd only been to school for the last week. Then summer vacation had started. I found going at all to be pointless, but Charlie had wanted to make sure I found some friends.

"Sorry, no. I haven't been here very long, though. I wouldn't know anyone who wasn't in school for the last, like, two weeks."

"Oh." He didn't sound disappointed, but there was no reason for him to be. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, suddenly tired. But he wasn't done talking. "So who do you have?"

"Edward Cullen," I replied without hesitating. It didn't seem necessary to keep it a secret. He was surprised.

"_Cullen?!_"

"Yeah, why?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the wall ahead of us, completely taken aback.

"You know him?"

"Know him? Yeah! I know him! We were friends in middle school. High school came and things split different ways, but you know how that is, I don't blame him. I just…" he blew air from his mouth, still searching for words. "I never thought he'd try to off himself."

I was shocked that Mike—of all people, MIKE—could use a term like that.

"Could you not say it like that?" I mumbled.

"Oh, sorry." He bit his lip. He was kind of cute when he did that. But as much as I knew he liked me, I just didn't feel the same way. I was hoping he wouldn't try to ask me again today.

"Why didn't you think he'd try?" I asked. Since Edward refused to tell me anything other than how badly he wanted to die, I wanted to learn as much about him from an outside source as I could, and since I had no way of contacting his family, a childhood friend would have to do.

"Well, he was always just a happy kind of guy. Or, happy enough. I mean, he has two sisters—beautiful, by the way—and two brothers, all of them adopted by a wealthy couple, the Cullens. Dr. and Mrs. Cullen." I nodded. I knew the doctor. "So, he was always well off, and his family loved him. He seemed to love them too. But the others are altogether if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows.

"They're all adopted, so is that a problem?"

"No, but picture this; your siblings have divided into couples and you're the odd man out."

"Oh. I can see how he'd be a little sad by that."

"More than a little sad. He used to tell me that he wished he could find a girl. I called him crazy—girls are all over him—but he said none of them were right. But, I just don't see him trying to kill himself. No matter how sad he was about being alone, it was never that bad. Then again, maybe he just didn't trust me enough to tell me what he was really thinking."

I'd seen him myself. Edward Cullen had the face of a Greek god—probably the body of one, too. It was hard to imagine a world where women—beautiful, thin, amazing women, very much unlike myself—were NOT throwing themselves at him. I mean, I took one look at the guy and I was leaving puddles of drool on the floor. Figuratively.

I found it hard to believe that he couldn't find anyone he liked out of all the girls who would _die _for _one date_ with him.

Then again, I thought humorously, maybe he's gay. Wouldn't that be a riot? I chuckled.

"You okay, Bella?" Mike asked, spooked by my unexplained laughter.

"What? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Thank you, for telling me about Edward. He doesn't seem like the sharing type, so I've got nothing on him. At least now I'll have conversation starters." The rest of the group was starting to arrive; I could see them trickling through the door, one or two at a time.

"Just take it easy on the guy. He's an old friend, and even if things have changed, it hurts to know he's hurting."

"Yeah, of course. Thanks again, Mike." I leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek in gratitude before heading off down the hall after the rest of the group. As he caught up behind me (standing a little too close) I had a sneaking suspicion that I would come to regret that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"You again?" The heavenly voice was filled with disgust. Or something similar.

"Sorry to disappoint." I said shortly. I took a seat in the chair, moving it back a little from the bed so we'd have space between us. It was more comfortable that way. "I told you I'd be back. That should have been warning enough."

"I was hoping you wouldn't bother." He looked away, out the window, and didn't move. He was good at that—turning to stone. He was like a statue of a Greek god then, and simultaneously the real thing.

I sighed. "Look, Edward, I know you don't want to talk, but you can't get better until—"

"Get better?" His voice was incredulous as he whipped his head back toward me. His eyes were wild. "I can't '_get better_.' I'm screwed up. I'm gonna be like this forever. That's why I told you to stop wasting your time."

I had to look away then. It had hurt enough to see someone this beautiful in a hospital bed, wan and pale, but then knowing he'd done it to himself? On purpose? And he didn't think he could be fixed.

"You're wrong," I told him. "There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing that can't be fixed. I don't understand why you won't try." I got up, pulling my coat on roughly. He watched me, trying to seem disinterested. "And I'm not wasting my time. I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing." I stalked to the door, praying that I didn't stumble. Hand on the knob, I turned back to him. "I'm gonna go get a soda. You want anything?"

He shook his head wordlessly and watched me leave, an amused smile playing on his lips at my fury. It took everything I had not to slam the door behind me, but I managed. I hurried off down the hall until I found a vending machine. I forced a crumpled dollar bill and some loose change into the machine and pressed a button at random. I heard two '_thunks_' and when I looked down, I saw something strange; a change in my luck.

I'd paid for one, but I'd gotten two. In middle school that was a sign from god that your luck was changing. I still wasn't happy, but I picked up the two bottles and walked a little more calmly back to the room. I took my place in my chair and held them up. I didn't see what button I pushed, so I didn't know what I was holding.

"Which do you want?" I asked. After staring at me, he reached for the one in my left hand—orange soda. I was left with a Sprite, and that suited me just fine.

"My favorite," he said quietly. I watched him twist off the cap and bring the bottle to his lips.

And suddenly I couldn't contain myself any more. I laughed. Long and loud. Soon I was gasping for air.

"And just what the hell is so funny?"

"I…have known you for two days." I was wheezing for air. "And the first thing I learn about you from your own lips is that your favorite soda is orange Fanta!" I was bent over double in the chair, clutching my sides. He just stared at me. I could feel his eyes on the back of my head.

"So…sorry. That was…really rude. And uncalled for." I wiped tears from my eyes, finally laughed out.

He took another swig of soda. When he put the bottle down, I could see a faint blush, prominent on his pale face. "I still don't think that was funny at all."

* * *

**A/N: I think this is the longest chapter (when Author's notes are excluded). I like this one, even though it ends kinda weird. If you couldn't interpret it for yourself, the ending means that he's a little less uncomfortable with her around. But when I say a little, I mean A LITTLE. As in, a tiny, miniscule amount, invisible to the naked eye. But anyway. It's 4:30 in the morning and I need to sneak off to bed now before my mother catches me on the computer at this hour. PLEASE REVIEW. Thanks.  
**


	7. Chapter 6

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 6  


* * *

**

Charlie hadn't been home the night before, so I assumed he was working on a particularly difficult case. I didn't bother him at work, didn't call him—because I knew if I did, he'd try to talk me out of going to the hospital—and instead just made some dinner and went to bed.

He wasn't home in the morning, so I figured I had the day to myself. I was getting ready to head off with my group. I stood in front of my closet in jeans and looked for a shirt to wear. I selected something brown and warm, pulled it on, finger-brushed my hair and went downstairs.

I was hoping on staying a little later than usual today, to catch up, since I'd spent two days with him and still hadn't helped at all. So, if Charlie came home, I wouldn't be there to cook. I put together some ingredients for cold cuts and left it on the top shelf, beside the milk carton. I scribbled a little note to Charlie and taped it on the handle, where he was sure to see it.

_Dad, _

_I might stay a little later today, so I left some food on the top shelf for dinner, in case I'm not home and you get hungry. PLEASE do not try to feed yourself. Friend eggs and bacon are not dinner. Eat what I made you. _

_Love, Bella_

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It had rained the night before. Almost all night. The roads were wet, and that made me cautious, since I was more likely to accidentally slide off the road and over a not-so-conveniently-placed cliff than anyone else was. And since I was driving forty in a fifty-five zone, I was late. Very late.

I was in no hurry to cross the parking lot—if driving on a wet road was dangerous, walking was twice as much. I avoided puddles, trying not to soak my sneakers, and went through the revolving door into the lobby.

I'd been there enough to know where I was going. I bypassed the front desk altogether, giving a smile and a small nod to the elderly lady behind the counter, answering phones. I grabbed a little visitor sticker and slapped it on my shirt, above my left breast.

Straight down the hall. Right. Left. Up two floors on the elevators. Left. Third door from the right.

"Hello, Edward." I closed the door quietly behind me and sat down, leaving my falsely cheerful smile in place. He eyed me suspiciously.

"Hello," he said coolly. He didn't seem to be worked up today, and I took that as a blessing in disguise. He might be easier to work with.

"How's it going?"

"How do you think?" He shifted his gaze to the window and let it stay there. I didn't mind.

"Right," I said under my breath and tried for a different angle. I was determined to crack his armor. "So, nice weather we're having, right?" I looked at him, waiting for an answer. He still didn't look back.

"I hate the sun." He was pale enough that I believed it.

"You like the rain?" A short nod. "it's so cold, though." A shrug. "And wet." He turned to stare at me with the biggest "DUH" look on his face I'd ever seen.

"No shit, Sherlock." He turned back to the window. I sighed, trying to think of something quick.

I'd already tried asking him pointless questions, and it hadn't gone over well. He'd given me minimal answers, reluctant to respond at all. I was just trying to get to know him, but he blocked me out. Babbling was all I'd done since I'd gotten there, so I wouldn't be doing more of that.

I allowed my eyes to roam the room, taking in the layout, the details, where the table was, the bed, the distance from my chair to the door. I noticed that Edward did not have flowers in the vase by the window like most patients.

The little glass vase was accompanied only by a book on the bedside table, and I couldn't read the spine to see a title. It was a tattered, worn paperback with dog-eared pages and fraying covers. The colors were faded, blending together almost into one shade.

"What are you reading?" I asked brightly, hoping he wouldn't avoid me completely. After a pause, he said,

"Wuthering Heights."

"Oh, that's my favorite." I felt happy that we had something in common, but it was obvious that he didn't share my enthusiasm. Silence overtook the room once more, and I couldn't look at him. Instead, my eyes fell upon a small, silver boom box sitting on the windowsill in the sunshine. It was partially hidden by the standard-issue hospital curtains. I suddenly remembered the CD in my purse. I stood and walked to the window.

"Do you mind if I turn this on?" I asked, pointing. He shrugged. "I'll take that as a yes." I opened the CD player, took the disc from my bag, slid it from it's case and popped it in. I hit power, and waited.

"What are you doing?" He asked. I looked over my shoulder at him for a second before returning my attention to the thing in front of me.

"I remembered you telling me you liked classical. So, I thought I would be nice and try to cheer you up. I burned a mix CD of my favorites. I hope you like them." I stopped talking as faint piano playing started, and Moonlight Sonata filled the room. I sat on the sill next to the CD player and soaked in the sunshine.

That song rolled into the next, and Edward turned his head to look at me. "What else is on here?" he asked.

I blew out air trying to remember all the tracks. There were a good twenty or so on there, so I wasn't sure I could. "Minute Waltz, Tzigane, Beethoven's fifth, just to name a few." He nodded, seemingly in approval. We were quiet until the end of the song, and then Clair de Lune started to play.

"This," I told him. "Is my favorite song." I started humming it again, like I had only a few days before, but this time without the tears. I was shocked to find Edward humming with me.

He caught my eye and saw my expression—jaw dropped, eyes wide, eyebrows raised—and ducked his head. "I really like Debussy," he said shyly. It was funny. I'd never really pegged him as the shy type. I smiled. And to my surprise—and eternal delight—he did, too.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I was humming happily to myself as I made dinner that night. I'd stayed an hour later than usual and I'd listened to the entire CD with Edward before I noticed the sun was setting. I apologized and grabbed my jacket. I had to hurry if I wanted to get home in time.

I remembered the cold cuts I'd left for Charlie, but if I had no more business, I might as well go home, and if I had a chance to feed him real food instead of turkey sandwiches, then I would take it. He'd gone four years living off canned soup and frozen waffles, and if I could help it, he'd never had to fend for himself again.

Unfortunately, when I'd arrived at home and checked the refrigerator, the sandwiches were gone, and in place of my note was another.

_Bells,_

_Got a tough case. I only stopped by to get some dinner. Thank you. Don't stay up too late._

_Love you, Dad._

Well, then I'd have to make dinner for myself.

I was ecstatic about the fact that we—by 'we' I mean Edward and myself—were finally connecting. And it wasn't something random or limited; it was music. We had common taste in music, meaning we had common taste in…well, life. You know what they say, "Music equals Life."

I was practically shivering with happiness, dancing around the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand humming along to the radio playing on the upper shelf. "What's Up" was playing; one of my favorites by the Four Non-Blondes.

"And so I wake in the morning and I step outside, and I take a deep breath and I get real high! And I… scream from the top of my lungs, WHAT'S GOIN' ON?!"

Sizzling sounds from the stove reminded me that I had a pot of vegetables going, and I rushed to turn down the burner. As soon as that was calm, I started a pot of noodles and let that boil. A new song was playing—another one that I knew well—and I was jumping around singing to that one in no time at all.

"Heads of state who ride and wrangle, who look at your face from more than one angle—"

The phone started ringing. I ran to answer it, but only got half there before I realized that the radio was too loud, and rushed back the other way to hop onto the counter and reach up to turn it down to a dull background noise. Then I raced across the kitchen tiles—in my socks; very dangerous—and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bella."

"Oh, Hi, Dad!" I was relieved to hear his voice. With the difficulty of this case, I was starting to get worried. It happened in books and movies a lot, but even more in real life—a cop would report for duty and not come home, and the police would call you. You'd expect it to be your cop relative, but it would just be one of his buddies calling to tell you he'd died. I shuddered at the thought. "How's it going?"

"Not so good. I'll be working late again tonight, and I wanted to call to let you know."

"Okay." I rubbed my knee where I'd hit it against the table while diving for the phone. "Is this…a murder case?"

"Well, Bells, I'm not really supposed to tell you that."

"It's okay," I replied. "Your answer was all the confirmation I need."

I could hear that he didn't like that, so I changed the subject and chatted with him for a little while, trying to get him to calm down and loosen up, assuring him repeatedly that I was fine and he needn't worry. I can cook, I can clean, and I can turn a deadbolt, so I'll be fine. Nice and safe inside the house.

Soon, though, he had to get back to work. He'd been taking his dinner break, he told me, and thanked me again for the cold cuts. I told him it wasn't a big deal while making a mental note to prepare another meal for him to take in case this continued. I wished him luck, we said goodbye, and I ran across the kitchen back to my boiling pots.

I made it just in time, and when I sat down to my dinner of pasta and vegetables, I wondered what I could do to pass the night. In the summer I didn't usually go to bed until one or two in the morning and then slept in. Since it was only half past seven, that left me with some time.

When I finished eating, I washed my dishes and put them away, contemplating going to see Edward again.

"That's a stupid idea," I chastised myself. "He's seen you once today; anymore and he'll get tired of your company." I knew he already was, and he didn't want my company in the first place, but let that train of thought go.

I trudged up the stairs to my room, deciding to read for a bit. I ran my finger along the spines of my books—lying quietly, peacefully, untouched along the length of my shelf—until I found the one that I wanted.

_Wuthering Heights._

* * *

**A/N: I'm SOOOO sorry that I haven't updated in...a week or so, now. But, as you all know, the holidays were upon us, and so I was spending Christmas with my family, and I couldn't update then. After that, I went to visit my dad, and since I no longer have a laptop (RIP Laptop) I couldn't work on this then either.**

**To make it up to you, I'm working on the next chapter, and things should be picking up soon. This chapter was sort of transition, and you could probably see that by the way Edward warmed up to her while humming Clair de Lune. (that's an awesome song, btw). SO PLEASE FORGIVE ME, REVIEW, AND KEEP REVIEWING. I SHALL KEEP WRITING!  
**


	8. Chapter 7

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 7  


* * *

**

I was shaking, holding onto the steering wheel with white knuckles, breathing hard, frightened. My eyes were wide and unblinking as I gasped for air from the run.

I should have known.

Every person has bad moments, bad days, even bad _weeks_. It shouldn't have surprised me that someone this emotionally unstable would be more…prone to those moments.

But _damn_, it had scared me good.

I was being utterly absurd, of course, and I knew it. There was no reason to be scared. Everyone freaked out occasionally. He hadn't meant to hurt me.

I looked down at the thin trail of blood running down my arm. It hadn't completely set in until that moment that I was bleeding at all. I started to feel faint. I pulled my sleeve up over the offending liquid and breathed through my mouth.

I was still in the hospital parking lot, maybe I should just go in and ask for some gauze…

But he was being discharged soon. I might run into him. No, I'd take my chances.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_That morning had started normally. I'd gotten up, showered and dressed, fixed breakfast, done menial chores around the house, and cooked something for Charlie's dinner all before noon. Then I grabbed my jacket and slid my feet into my rain boots. I went out to the truck and started it, wishing for the first time that I had a newer car with a heater that worked. _

_I rubbed my arms for friction and headed off, trying to ignore the chattering of my teeth. _

_It wasn't long before I was pulling into my usual spot in the parking lot—in the corner of the lot under the shelter of a huge sycamore tree—and walking through very familiar doors. I got my visitor sticker and slapped it onto my sweater, heading for the elevator up to Edward's room. _

_I'd gotten to the nurse's station on that floor when I knew something was wrong. _

_First of all, no one was in the station. A phone was ringing, and there was no one to answer it. They had to be somewhere, so I looked around. I contemplated answering the phone myself, but not only would that probably get me into trouble, but I wouldn't know what to say or how to help the person on the other line. I left it alone and headed for Edward's door._

_I stopped in my tracks as I heard a loud crash, like something metal hitting the floor. I jumped nearly a foot in the air, my eyes wide from the startling noise. It only made the shock worse realizing that the sound had come from Edward's room. _

_I rushed up to the door and opened it, hoping that I didn't see the worst, pushing away images of his face lying cold and unmoving._

_On the contrary, he was quite alive. Alive, and kicking. Literally._

_Two nurses were trying to coerce him out of his bed. Their tone suggested begging, and his suggested threats. _

_"Back away!" He warned them. "I don't want to be treated anymore! I want to go home and die!" His eyes were wide and crazed. They looked a little bloodshot, as though he hadn't slept. _

_One of the nurses noticed me enter the room. "Good," she said under her breath before turning to her companion. "I'll go get more help." She barreled past me and out the door. The other nurse threw a frantic, pleading look my way, and I knew it was up to me to calm Edward down. _

_But just how to do that?_

_"Edward, what—"_

_"Shut up! Just shut up! I don't want to hear another word come out of your mouth! You think you can just come in here and try and fix me! Well, you _can't_!" It was only then that I noticed he was within reach of sharp objects. A knife lay on his bedside table, unnoticed by him and the nurse. I dove for it, reaching across the bed._

_"What the hell?" He shouted, and pushed me away from him. I cried out as my hand landed on the blade, leaving a long, shallow cut on the outside of my arm. I knocked the knife to the floor and retreated back against the opposite wall. _

_"Please…calm down!"_

_"No!" He fisted his hands in his hair. "I'm a monster! None of you people realize that! If you knew, you'd let me die! Why can't you understand?"_

_"Understand, what, Edward? I don't know what you're talking about. If you'd just tell me—" He grabbed his pillow and tossed it at my head. It hit me square in the face and then fell to the ground. Next he reached for the book on his table. He chucked it at my head, and I only just missed getting hit._

_In desperation, I held my hands out to show I was unarmed. "Edward, please. You're scaring me. I just want to help."_

_"You _can't_." He chuckled darkly and reached for something else—a bowl. "There's no way to help me now. I'm a monster and that will never change. Now get OUT!" He threw the bowl, and it hit me above my left eyebrow. It was going to bruise, but there would be no permanent damage._

_"Stop it! You're not a monster!"_

_"How would you know? You don't know me!"_

_"I'm trying, Edward, if you'd just _let_ me!" I inched closer, using my arms to shield myself from any other projectiles he could launch my way. "I want to get to know you! That's why I'm here!" There was nothing else he could throw, so he desperately looked for anything to keep me away. I looked to the nurse for help, but she was busy rifling through a drawer of syringes. I approached the bedside and looked down at him. "Edward, please."_

_He stopped for the briefest of moments and looked into my eyes. I thought he was going to listen for a miniscule fraction of a second, but no sooner had I thought that than he reached for his wrists. _

_"Don't move," he told me. I stopped. My knees were pressing into the side of the bed anyway. "Isabella," he said, looking straight at me, "I am going to die. Whether it be sooner or later, it is going to happen. Now STOP trying to get in the way!" In one swift movement he tore the bandages from his wrists and I saw his scars. I gasped. _

_There were at least ten on each arm, possibly more. Each was long and deep, and some looked as thought they were still oozing. The stench hit me first and I almost collapsed. I clamped a hand over my nose and watched him carefully. He tore the other wad of gauze off as well, tossing the two bundles into the corner. "Stop trying to interfere."_

_His fingers spasmed. They looked like they were itching to do something, to scratch and itch, or…_

_To tear his scars open again. _

_His fingernails were long and sharp and it took no time at all for the first one to be opened fully. Blood cascaded down his forearm like a waterfall and it took everything I had not to throw up. _

_"Stop it!" I screeched. The nurse was coming now with what I hoped was a sedative. She injected it into his IV, and a look of relief crossed her face. _

_"What did you do?" He shouted. "Drugs? More drugs?" His fingers fumbled around the tube in his arm and ripped it free messily. I almost lost it again. The nurse was freaking out now._

_"I can't give him anything else unless I inject it directly into him, and he'll never let me get near him! We just have to wait for security…" I prayed they'd be here soon. In the meantime, Edward went back to ripping his arms open. _

_I lost it then. I threw up in the corner from the smell. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and turned back to him. "Edward, stop it!"_

_"No!" His fingers never faltered. "I'll do it! This time I won't fail!"_

_Still gagging with dry heaves, I hurried back to the bed, reaching out with my arms. I pressed my clean sleeve to the open wound. He wrenched his arm from my grasp and pushed me away. I persisted, dragging his arm away from his other hand, refusing to let him hurt himself any further. He swatted at me with his free arm, but I dodged it and crawled up onto the side of the bed, pinning his bloody arm down. He tried to get around me, but couldn't. _

_I hadn't noticed the hot tears on my cheeks. "Edward, STOP!" I sobbed. "Please!" _

_He did not comply. He still struggled, but I'd held him down long enough for security to get there. Two big men pinned his arms down while someone else rebandaged them. Then, once his scars were safely swathed, handcuffs secured him to the bed. A nurse pumped him with sedatives and his face took on a lethargic look. His eyelids drooped and he was out in minutes._

_I left the room as soon as I could, having witnessed more than enough. Now I knew what a "bad day" was like for him. I made a mental note to prepare myself better next time._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

After I got over my sickness, I drove home and cleaned myself up. Another shower, another outfit, and a clean jacket. Stubbornly, I hopped into my truck and headed back to the hospital, determined to see him again. If his little show back there was to deter me, it wasn't going to work. I wouldn't give up.

I waked into the lobby hurriedly and down the hall, taking the stairs instead of the elevator this time. In front of his room stood two people—Mr. Banner and a doctor. I overheard a snippet of their conversation.

"There's nothing more we can do. He refuses the psyche meds, he won't accept counseling, and there seems to be no convincing him. I'm afraid there's nothing else I can do but discharge him. He's making no progress here."

"Alright. His family want him to remain a part of the program. I'll need his home address if you're at liberty to give it to me…oh, Isabella." The doctor went to retrieve the information. Mr. Banner looked at me with sympathy. "I was so worried you were hurt." I shook my head. "Well, he's sleeping now, so I think it would be best if you just went home. If you stop by the Center tomorrow, I'll have his new address. I'd give him a day or two to adjust to life back home, though, just to be on the safe side."

I nodded and left without another word. I'd made it to the lobby before I heard someone calling my name. I planed to ignore whoever it was and keep walking, still a littlee shaken by my day, but the voice was getting closer and closer and seemed oddly familiar, and…

"Bella!"

"Oh. Hello, Mike."

"I heard what happened." He looked sympathetic. "That sounds rough."

"You have no idea." I sighed.

"So, listen, I know this is weird timing, but I was wondering if maybe you needed a distraction. Something to take your mind off this whole mess."

I stiffened. "Mike, I told you, I'm not looking for a relationship right—"

"I know, I know. I was thinking more along the lines of coffee. As friends. Nothing more. I just want to help you relax. You looked stressed."

His intentions seemed good, and his face was one of sincerity and hope, so I gave in and agreed.

"But JUST coffee."

Talking about what had been happening sounded like just the thing I needed.

* * *

**A/N: Gah. I got NO sleep last night. It's currently half past eleven in the morning and I just finished this. I was planning on going out with someone at noon, but the weather made me postpone it till later in the afternoon, and so I am going to go sleep now. Please enjoy this, review, and anticipate the next chapter. This one was exciting, but the next time you see Edward it will be in the CULLEN HOUSE!  
**


	9. Chapter 8

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 8  


* * *

**

I told Mike it had been a long day and I was still a little dizzy, so we arranged our little outing for the next day, around nine in the morning. He met with Eric later in the day and I didn't have to meet with Edward, since he was being discharged and sent home. Mr. Banner asked me to give him a day or two to adjust to life back home, and that was exactly what I planned to do. I wasn't sure I'd be able to look at him so soon after.

Thinking of his face—full of hatred, rage, and confusion—made my arm hurt. I clenched the bandages to relieve the pain. All I wanted was sleep, so I went home and did just that, leaving a quick note to Charlie that I felt ill and that I hoped he could fend for himself if he came home hungry. I was till nauseous, so I had no need for food myself. I was out before my head hit the pillow.

I had nightmares. Blood-filled nightmares about Edward. He was killing himself and I was unable to move, stuck in the corner, petrified and useless, forced to watch him die alone. I screamed his name, but he couldn't hear me. And then my voice was gone and so was he.

I woke up sweaty and cold, having kicked my sheets off the bed. Charlie was hovering over me, hands on my shoulders.

"You alright Bella?" My eyes flew around the room, checking my surroundings as if making sure I was really awake. Once I saw the room was clear, I relaxed. I looked up to meet Charlie's gaze.

"Yeah. Just a nightmare." His mouth turned down in a frown, and I could see he blamed it on the program, but I refused to let him say anything, and flopped back down into my pillow, pulling my covers back up. My father straightened up and nodded a good-night before leaving, closing the door quietly behind him.

I turned my head to look at the time, and the clock blinked 2:37 at me in big, red numbers. Hadn't Charlie been wearing his uniform? He'd just gotten in at half-past two in the morning. Just how hard _was_ this case? I decided to ask him in the morning. I rolled onto my side and fell back asleep.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My alarm blared in my ear at quarter to eight, rousing me from my dreamless sleep. I lifted my head from my pillow to glare at the source of the noise before slamming a hand down on it—at the wrong angle. The alarm stopped, but I had pain shooting up my arm. I cradled my hand against my chest until it became nothing more than a dull throb, and pulled myself from the comfort of my mattress over to my closet.

I pulled out something to wear—nothing formal, since this was only a coffee-outing between friends (if you could even call us friends, since we'd known each other for only a few days)—just a pair of jeans and a mint-green turtleneck sweater that I hoped still fit me.

After I showered and blow-dried my hair, I found that it did fit, but it was snug. I thought nothing of it at the time, though, and just headed downstairs, grabbed a pop-tart, and turned on the kitchen TV for the morning news. A quick glance at the clock told me I had half an hour before I needed to leave. I got more comfortable, propping my feet up on the counter as I chewed.

_In other news, a murder has been committed on the south side of the small town of Forks, Washington. The body of a young girl—whose identity has not yet been confirmed—was found in an alley late Friday night. She was covered in cuts and bruises that suggested rape, but no extensive testing has been done, and therefore it is impossible to determine the cause of death._

I wondered if this was the case Charlie was working on. My eyes flickered to the clock once more and I flipped off the TV and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and hair.

The bruise I'd gotten yesterday was now huge and purple above my left eye, right along the brow line and descending to my left temple. Gently I put a little pressure on it and winced. It was too tender to touch, so I'd have to skip the makeup. If Charlie hadn't seen it last night, he definitely would today. I sighed and got my toothbrush out.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting at a table in a little café not far from the hospital. I had my hair pulled up into a simple ponytail and I was looking around for mike Newton. He was nowhere to be found. I sighed.

Maybe he'd stood me up. Maybe he'd only been joking about this entire thing and any minute know one of his friends would come along and take my picture as evidence that I fell for this stupid prank, and then Mike would have it to hold over my head every time he—

"Bella?" I snapped from my daze to see Mike Newton waving a hand in front of my face.

"Oh! Sorry, Mike, I was zoning out." I chuckled apologetically.

"It's fine," he said, and pulled out the chair across from me. "Sorry I was late. I work with my mom at our sporting good store and someone knocked over a display and I had to clean it up." He rolled his eyes, but he was laughing.

A waitress came to take our order, and I took a quick look at the menu for the first time since I'd been there. I ordered the first thing I saw; blueberry muffin and mocha-chino. Mike ordered without glancing at the menu, and then the waitress was gone. Mike never looked away from me. I had a feeling it was the too-tight top I was wearing. I wasn't the curviest of women, but I was a full B-cup, and when a tight sweater was stretched over that, it had to _look_ curvy. I crossed my arms, but quickly uncrossed them when I realized that made my chest look bigger. I hunched my shoulders a bit and that seemed to do the trick.

"So," I said, trying to break through his daze. "How's everything with Eric?"

"Pretty good," he smiled. "He's a cool guy. He was just depressed. He took his mother's pills—for her depression—and tried to take the whole—" I tuned him out after that, nodding my head when appropriate, but not really listening. I was thinking more about Edward, trying not to see him as he had been when I'd last laid eyes on him.

The waitress came with our order and I was thankful to have something else to distract me. I wouldn't have to look at Mike the entire time. I took a few bites of the muffin, and thought it was good, I had no real appetite. I'd eaten at home, but I was still a little nauseous from the incident yesterday.

"So how are things with Edward Cullen?" He asked. I was jolted back to reality as I thought of that to say. I took a sip of my coffee to stall and tucked my hair behind my ear—a big mistake. "Oh, Bella! What happened to your eye?"

My bruise! I quickly raised a hand to cover it, but the damage was done. Mike had seen it all, and he was going berserk.

"Did someone hit you? It wasn't Edward, was it? Your dad doesn't beat you, right? You can come stay with me if he ever tries anything, okay?"

"Mike, Mike, calm down. I ran into a door the other day when I wasn't looking forward while walking. It's not a big deal."

He eyed me. "It looks like it hurts."

"It's a little sore, but it'll be gone in a day." I waved my hand. "Nothing to worry about." I could tell he didn't believe me, but he let it go and instead repeated his question.

"Edward is…quiet. He's not very open, doesn't like to talk at all. He's actually…" I searched for the right word. "He's actually quite bratty. And he says he's a monster. He…" I shuddered as I remembered. "He tried to kill himself again in my presence. Yesterday." I quickly thought of a way to relate the bruise so that Mike would believe me. "That's how I got this. I was running to get the nurse to stop him and I hit the doorjamb."

"He seriously tried to kill himself?" Mike seemed distant, and I could tell he was thinking of his past with Edward when they were friends. I gave him a moment.

"I don't think he was himself, Mike. He's under emotional stress and he's unstable. I mean, that doesn't exactly mean it's okay to try and kill yourself, but if he was…normal, I don't think he would have."

We'd finished our coffee so Mike paid—despite my protests that I'd pay for my half—and we went for a walk. We were silent for most of it, Mike was still thinking, and I was as well, possibly both of us on the same subject—Edward Cullen.

I couldn't stand to see him hurting. I knew absolutely nothing about him and yet I felt like we were close friends. We never were, not like Mike. I wondered how this was affecting him.

"Hey," I said softly, nudging his hand with mine. "How ya holding up?"

"Hm," he hummed. Not really an answer…

"Look, I know it's hard. And I know I've never had a close friend do that…but my mother did. So I know what you're going through. But there _is_ a bright side to this." His eyes flickered to mine, silently asking what that could be. "At least he's not dead. He didn't actually finish the job. My mother did, and she didn't even give warning like an attempt. It just…happened." He looked at me sympathetically. "No, it's okay. I'm over it, really. I just don't want anyone else to lose hope like that. That's why I joined."

We were turning around and heading back to our cars. "Thanks, Bella. You really cheered me up."

My brow furrowed. '_Then why can't I do the same for Edward?_' I thought, and then scolded myself. I was here to be a friend for Mike, not to constantly think of someone else. How rude, even if he didn't know what I was doing.

"I'm glad I could help." I said cheerily. Just as we arrived at the parking lot, Mike stopped me.

"Hey, listen…" I tensed. He was going to ask me out again. "This was…fun. I was wondering if you'd like to hang out more often? Just as friends, of course." He added the last bit after seeing my face. My shoulders relaxed and my features softened.

"Sure, Mike. That sounds fun.

We said goodbye and I got in my truck and headed off to the Center. Mr. Banner had promised me Edward's address, and I was going to go tomorrow. I wanted to make sure I could map-quest directions, though.

And I prayed things would be better since he was in his home and not the hospital.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this took a little longer than I thought. Family issues, holiday plans, and the end of vacation are a little overwhelming. I'll be returning to school on Monday, so updating might be a little less frequent. Please stay faithful. I won't abandon this story! Reviews make me happy!  
**


	10. Chapter 9

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 9  


* * *

**

I took a deep breath. And let it out. And took another. And let that one out too. I gripped my steering wheel tightly and once more thought of turning around and going home. Because I was looking through my windshield at what was possibly the most amazing, spectacular house I'd ever seen in all of my seventeen years of life.

And I was scared of both that beautiful, intimidating house, and the beautiful boy inside of it.

Edward Cullen's house.

I still wasn't sure if I could go in, but something told me I had to. It would be not only a waste of _my_ time, but a waste of Edward's healing time if I just sat in the driveway, afraid to go inside. Or at least knock on the door.

I eased the car door open—ignoring its creak of protest—and sidled my way quietly up the seven—I counted—steps and onto the porch. I stared at the huge, ornately-carved wooden door for a few minutes before I raised my fist and knocked, lightly at first, and then hard enough to be heard.

And I waited.

I knew someone was home, partly because Mr. Banner was told by the doctor that Edward was not to be left alone, or let off his property. I also knew because I could hear scuffling behind the door, like half-hearted footsteps dragging on hardwood.

Just as I was about to knock again, the door disappeared, having been wrenched open, and I found myself staring directly at Edward's chest. I dropped my arm.

"Uh…hello, Edward." I shook off the surprise and smiled encouragingly. "I'm here for your—"

The door slammed in my face and I heard angry footsteps stomping off in the opposite direction. I sighed, feeling defeated, but no ready to give up just yet. I knocked again, knowing that I wouldn't get a response, but feeling the need to be persistent. If he wanted to die, fine. But I wasn't going to stop trying.

"Edward, come on. It's just me." I tried to sound reassuring and I'm sure I failed in the process. I bit my lower lip and tried to think of something to say, something that would convince him that I wasn't here to hurt him anymore, something that would make clear that I wasn't mad at him for the other day.

I touched my eye gently. It still hurt. I thought the mark would be gone by today, but it was a deep enough bruise that the mark had only gotten worse, and makeup, I knew, would not help.

I was torn from my thoughts by the sounds of voices inside. I recognized one immediately to be Edward's and listened closely to their conversation. I knew eavesdropping was wrong, but I couldn't help my curiosity.

Their voices were too hushed to make out more than a few words; "program," "annoying," "help," "useless," "die." After that last one—Edward had said it—the other voice stopped. When it spoke again, it was a low, threatening tone. The kind no one wanted to mess with.

I got the feeling it was time to leave, and I turned to go. But I hadn't even gone down two steps when the door was opened again, this time revealing a beautiful, caramel-haired woman in her thirties. Her appearance was immaculate, her makeup perfect, and the only thing wrong about her was that she looked upset.

She also looked as though she was trying to hide it.

"I'm so sorry, dear!" She said to me. She spoke shortly, as though she was on her last straw. "Edward's being so stubborn. You're welcome here, of course!"

"Really, if he doesn't want to see me, I can go. I should have realized it was too soon to come over, when he's only just gotten out of the hospital…"

"Oh, no, no, no! Don't be silly! I'm so glad you're here!" Her smile seemed a little less forced and she was calming down. She stood aside to allow me into the house and I slid past her with a grateful smile. I thought I had done a great job walking, only to trip on the edge of the rug as soon as I was in the door.

I heard laughter and lifted my head from the Persian runner to see Edward in the other room, sitting on a white denim couch. On top of a white carpet. Inside a white room.

The decorating was very…white.

I stood back up and brushed myself off, assuring the woman I was fine.

Her teeth were as perfectly white as her living room.

"I'm Esme," she introduced herself with a petite hand outstretched. I took it with my own and couldn't help but notice how soft her skin was. "Edward's mother."

I didn't believe her, and she must have seen my skepticism in my face, because she suddenly laughed. "Foster mother, dear, not biological. He was the first of many." She seemed very fond of him.

"I'm Bella Swan," I said before I forgot. "I'm with the community center outreach program." Her smiled widened.

"I know who you are dear. Although it might not seem like the truth, Edward has actually talked about you before."

"Good things, I hope." I chuckled nervously, casting a quick glance in the boy's direction. He only snorted.

"Nothing good to mention." He said, smirking. Ouch. That stung.

"Edward!" Esme was absolutely aghast, and apologized profusely to me, since we both knew that he wouldn't. I assured it was alright, that I didn't let that get to me, that I was a completely professional person when it came to the subject at hand. I didn't feel it necessary to give her my reasons why, though.

"Well, I'm afraid Edward won't be very cooperative, but I'm very glad you decided to stick with us. I know it doesn't seem like it but it really does help."

Help whom? I didn't see any of this affecting Edward at all, if his display the other day was any indication. Such a shame. He's such a good-looking boy, and I knew that if he wasn't so depressed all the time that he would probably be a delightful person to be around. I had no idea what had happened to make him this way, and I knew he would probably never be the same, but I was hoping I could help, even if only a little.

But, you can try to help someone all your life and it won't help at all if they don't want it.

So I had to make Edward want it. It was vital that I gave him a reason to live, or point out one that he already had, made it more valuable to him. Family didn't seem to do the trick, and friends were nowhere near as important, so I had to find leverage, something that would be worth living for.

"Edward, why don't you show Bella your room? You can talk in private there." Esme cast a meaningful glance at her son and her voice had a tone of finality. The boy in question rolled his eyes and got up from the couch to walk down the hall. He didn't beckon me to follow but I did anyway, knowing I was supposed to. He didn't stop in the doorway, or wait for me. He walked into his bedroom, sat down on the bed, leaned against the wall, and told me to close the door behind me.

I was ecstatic to find that his room was more tastefully decorated. There was not a smidgen of plain white to be found. The walls were an ivory color and littered with pictures and posters, and across from the bed was a bulletin board with papers and ticket stubs littered across the surface. He had one entire wall devoted to bookshelves—most of which housed CDs and not books—and his floor was covered in a golden carpet that was plush under my feet.

His bedspread was a deep red, his nightstand a dark-stained wood upon which rested a small alarm clock with red, block numbers.

He had a silver, fairly new-looking stereo system on a table next to his CD collection, and on the other side of that was a black leather couch. I pointed, asking wordlessly if I might sit. He shrugged, and I took that as a yes and planted my but into the surprisingly soft cushions. It was the kind of couch you never wanted to get off of.

It might sound stupid, but that couch alone would have been reason enough for me to want to live.

A silence stretched between us, each of us having a different variety, both intermingling in the air. His was stubborn, angry, spiteful. He didn't want to speak because it would mean he had given in, decided against his previous resolve, hoped for something. Mine was because I didn't know what to say to him. I was afraid of messing up and being the reason that he finally did what he wanted to. I didn't want to be what pushed him over the edge; I wanted to be what was pulling him back from it.

"So, Edward," I said. "I guess you…really, really like music, huh?"

"How'd you know?" I ignored his sarcasm.

The outstanding number of classical composers that I recognized was a breathtaking number, but in addition to the ones I didn't, half his collection must have been classical pieces. My thoughts flashed back to the CD I'd given him.

"Do you still have the CD I gave you?"

His eyes flickered downward and he looked ashamed or embarrassed. "Stereo." Without asking, I got up to turn it on, thinking it might lighten the atmosphere a little. I skipped through the sad, dark pieces—why did I even put those on there?—and got straight to my favorite—Clair de Lune.

The opening started lightly and then got heavier, into the more emotion-filled notes, the more beautiful ones. I bit my lip, realizing that I would forever associate this song to the broken boy across the room.

"Edward, I know you don't want me here, but—"

"Just stop it." He interrupted. "Stop trying to act like you know my life. Stop acting like you know what I've done."

"I want to help you!" I protested. I hated that we were having this conversation again, we'd had it so many times; he promising to kill himself, and me promising that I wouldn't let him, that I would make it better.

Just how I was going to do that I still had to figure out myself.

"I can't just sit here and watch you wither away!"

"Stop caring!" He was up and across the room in seconds, with almost inhuman speed. He was hovering over me, his face livid, fists clenched at his sides. I was genuinely afraid he would hit me. I shrank away from him, pressing my back into the couch a little more, but keeping my stubborn expression on. "Stop pretending you actually give a damn! You know that when I kill myself, you won't miss me at all!" His face was getting red and he was shouting. Without warning, one hand shot to my neck and pinned me where I was. "This is getting ridiculous and annoying."

He might have hated me, might have resented me, might have wished I would crawl in a corner and die, leave him the hell alone, get out of his life. He might have wished that he was dead, but as I stared into his eyes, wide and frantic as he crushed my windpipe, I saw something there that was all I would need to be persistent.

I saw a plea for help. The eyes of a scared little boy who wanted someone to save him. Tell him it was okay.

He pried his fingers away from my neck and I instinctively reached my own to check for blood or broken skin. I slid down to the end of the couch and ran across the room, leaving him there, staring at his hands, looking like he hated himself all the more. I looked back only once before I wrenched open the door ran down the hall outside, and to my car. I didn't stop until I was home, safe in my own bed.

There were some days in my life that I felt the same way that he did.


	11. Chapter 10

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 10**

* * *

Back in my room, I ran my finger along the spines of the few books I'd managed to collect. Compared to Edward's stash, it was nothing, but I was proud of it nonetheless.

My shelves were covered in classics—Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens. My favorite was Wuthering Heights.

Then I went down to the next shelf, where my childhood books were. Things like The Cat in the Hat and Popcorn. Memories floated into my mind of the age that I'd memorized the words to my favorites and _I _read them to _my parents_. They knew I couldn't read because I would hold the book upside down.

Below that were the sketchbooks and little notebooks of poetry I'd kept throughout middle school, and the journal I'd stopped writing in after seventh grade. The cover was decorated in flower stickers and little ponies. On the inside cover I'd written "_Property of Bella Swan KEEP OUT!_" Not that I ever had to worry about anyone reading it. I'd never been the most exciting or sought after of girls.

I pulled this from between its neighbors and leafed through the pages, smiling to myself at the trivial things I'd worried about when I was younger.

Things like what I was going to wear to someone's party when I knew they wouldn't invite me anyway, or who was going out with whom. It was never any of my business, and it never affected me in any way.

I'd stopped when school started to get complicated. Subjects got harder, homework got longer. And then my parents started fighting. Then it seemed stupid to worry about what I was going to wear.

My last entry was about a huge fight my parents had. I was so scared that I hid in my closet and wrote in my journal with a booklight. Their voices were so loud that I could still hear them downstairs in the kitchen. It was in the middle of seventh grade. I decided to stop.

It had always made me feel so much better. It felt silly to me now, since I was a junior in high school, but I had the stupid notion that it would make me feel better to write on those thin paper pages again.

I sat down at my desk, and grabbed a pen from the mug of writing utensils. I flipped to the next clear page and dated it. Then I let my fingers go to work.

_Dear Diary. _

_It's been a while, huh? A few years now. Almost three. It seems as though I've grown out of things like journals with ponies on the front. Things have become more serious in my life, and I've run out of time to write about it all._

_First things first. Mom died. Well, let me correct myself. She committed suicide. I was the one who found her. That's the biggest change to my life since seventh grade. And I'm sorry to spring this on you like that. _

_Haha, listen to me. I'm writing this down like I'm talking to a regular person. I even wrote out the word 'haha.' _

_As silly as this all is, it is making me feel better. But there's much, much more to this story. It might actually take quite a few pages to write it all down. So prepare yourself._

I then started scribbling furiously, trying to express my feelings about everything that had been going on. I told of my decision to join the program, and the training program and the argument I had with Charlie over the whole thing.

_I hate arguing with him, but he can't hold me down forever. I need to do this. It's part of my own healing. I was powerless to stop my own mother from killing herself, but I want to feel like I can stop others from making the same mistake. _

I ran through my entire first day and that took a good five pages just to describe what I was feeling about Mr. Banner's little speech.

_He said that sometimes people have nothing to live for and you can't do anything. But I refuse to believe that, and I told him so. There is absolutely nothing so terrible that it would make you want to give up on absolutely everything in life. There is always something. _

_Always._

I felt a little better after that, so I shut the book and took a breather, figuring it was about time I got started on dinner. I didn't know when Charlie was going to be home today, but it was always a good idea to have food ready at the regular time.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I couldn't keep myself away. It wasn't enough just to write down that my mother was dead, I had to write more. I had to write down everything that was happening in my life, every single detail, down to the last tiny thing. After dinner—which Charlie did not attend—I sat myself back down in my desk chair and felt everything spill from my fingertips, relief coming with the words.

_The first person I'm supposed to help in this outreach program is a boy named Edward Cullen. He's about my age, and he's tragically beautiful. And beautifully tragic. _

_He won't tell me why but he is constantly trying to kill himself. He keeps saying things like he's a monster who can't be saved, and he wants me to stop trying. He's even hurt me before. Not that that matters. It was only minor stuff. Most of it was my own fault anyway, so I can't blame him. I never should. _

_But I still wonder. I need to find a way that I can get him to open up to me. _

_It just makes me so mad that he thinks he's so alone in the world. He thinks he's the only one who's suffering. It's almost selfish. He wants to escape and end it all while the rest of us are sitting back down here on earth flat on our asses wondering where we went wrong. It's so…_

But I couldn't finish that sentence. I didn't know what else to say. His actions were selfish, like my mother's had been. And it had taken me this long to realize it.

My tears streamed down my cheeks in rivulets, dripping from my chin and onto my lap. My hand clenched and unclenched my pencil and I crumpled my paper with the other had.

My eyes burned. These were not tears of sadness.

I checked the time—it was only half past seven. I still had time.

I grabbed a jacket and used the sleeve to wipe away the tears of rage as I ran downstairs and searched for my car keys.

Edward Cullen. I promised that I was never going to give up. And I won't break my promise.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I knocked at the door hastily, my impatience getting the better of me. I waited no more than a few seconds before knocking again, this time more rapidly, tapping my foot and crossing my arms over my chest. I quicly uncrossed them and put on a polite smile as Esme opened the door.

"Hello dear!" She greeted. She was obviously surprised, but it was a good kind of shock.

"Hello Mrs. Cullen, I was wondering if I might have a quick word with Edward, if it's not a bad time." The tone of my voice was almost pushy, with undertones of _I'm coming in, so move_.

She merely nodded and stepped aside and I rushed past her and headed to Edward's room. I remembered where it was in the hall—past the bathroom, last door on the left—and stormed in without knocking, very nearly slamming the door behind me.

He was on his bed, reading. A classical CD was playing. I huffed a bit from my speedy walk, a little out of breath.

At my loud entrance, he looked up toward me and a look of obvious disdain and annoyance crossed his features. That just about cinched it for me.

Before he could even finish his sentence of "what are you doing here?" I was across the room and by the side of his bed, glaring down at him. His expression changed suddenly, and he looked as if he was trying to read my thoughts. I narrowed my eyes, balling my fists at my sides.

"What is your problem?" I spat out. My anger was getting the better of me.

And I liked it.

I felt free. Free to express myself, to make others realize that I wasn't going to just quietly sit by and watch them destroy themselves. Because with them, they held a piece of me. Every single person I knew had one, even Edward, whom I'd only known for a short while.

He raised a cynical eyebrow at me and almost smirked. He was looking at me as though I was stupid, and maybe I was, but I wasn't going to let his opinion stop me from doing what I needed to do. I glared harder.

On the rare occasion that I got angry, I did it with a ferocity that rivaled a tiger.

Or so my father once told me.

"Oh, I have many," he waved a dismissive hand, acting nonchalant, like we were discussing the weather or something equally unimportant. My hands trembled with my fury.

"I can't believe you," I hissed out through my teeth. "You—" I pointed my finger at him "—are being so…so…"

"So what?" He asked. I hated that smug look on his face, acting like he was all-knowing, acting like he knew how it would end.

Without thinking, my fingers splayed and I lashed out, striking him on his cheek. I didn't regret it. It felt good.

"You're being selfish!" I screamed, not caring if Esme could hear. "You think you're the only one who's suffering, but all you're doing is feeling sorry for yourself and causing problems for others! Did you ever think about what this does to your mother? Or your friends? Or me, for that matter? Sure, I've only known you for a little while, and you probably don't give a damn, but I've seen scarier shit than the rest of them out there. Edward, I saw you try to kill yourself!" I stopped and took a breath and then started yelling again before he could interrupt me. I was on a roll.

"You think you've got it bad, but there are other people out there worse off than you who are dealing with it—and for the sake of others! Those people have loved ones that they need to keep on living for! You're acting like my mother…" My gaze went to the floor now, breaking away from his distant face for the first time since I'd entered his room. "I'm sick of this, Edward. You want to kill yourself? Too fucking bad. I'm not going to let you. You wanna know why?"

He unconsciously nodded, simply reacting to the words, still looking dazed.

"Because I'm tired of seeing selfish people like you whine about how much your life sucks. You're just not happy with what you've got. People like you…." I was shaking, trembling, too angry to think straight. I paused and huffed a breath, blinking back more angry tears and resisting the urge to hit him again. "Disgust me."

I turned on my heel and headed straight out of the room, down the hall, out the front door, to my truck.

I got in, slammed the door, bit down on the steering wheel, and screamed.

I let it all out, all my rage, the feelings I'd kept bottled up since my mother's suicide. A stray thought crossed my mind as I started the car and drove away; I hadn't been to visit my mother's grave in quite a while.

Mentally, I made plans to do that, and then sighed, realizing just how much better I felt.


	12. Chapter 11

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 11

* * *

**

The next day, I did not go visit Edward Cullen.

I was still angry at him, and somewhat embarrassed with the way I had acted. It had felt good at the time, but overall I'd only made myself look stupid and tougher than I actually was. But both of us knew just how strong I really was, and that little show didn't change anything.

The day after my latest visit, I stayed home. I didn't go to the store; I didn't go out with friends. I didn't go to group session at the Center. For the most part I stayed in bed and thought about what had happened. I was too lazy even to get up and shower that day, instead opting to stay in my pajamas under my purple down comforter, slightly greasy hair tied up in a messy ponytail. I had some books with me and I tried reading them, but I couldn't get more than a few chapters in before I would read one sentence over and over and over because something had suddenly reminded me of Edward and my thoughts went in that direction and I couldn't turn them back.

Eventually I gave up, made food, and did whatever I would normally do without thinking. I hated that I was starting to regret my words.

I made up my mind, though. The next day was supposed to be nice, with fair weather and sunshine, somewhere close to the sixties. I'd made a mental note to visit my mother soon, and that was the perfect day to do it. And maybe I would bring a guest along.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next day was indeed sunny and brilliant. There was almost no need for a jacket with the warm breezes rolling through the sky, but I brought one along in case I changed my mind about that.

I'd dressed in a khaki skirt that fell just short of my knees and a deep blue button-front blouse. I'd had an outfit similar to it years before and my mother had always told me how much she liked that color on me. So, to honor her memory, I wore her favorite color. I'd even curled my hair to look good for the occasion.

Along the way I'd stopped at Edward's house and explained my intentions to Esme. She, thinking it a great idea, immediately forced Edward to shower and dress nicely, then ushered him out the door using brute force and low-spoken threats. And so he ended up in the passenger seat of my beaten-up old truck, leaning his head in his hand and staring out the window.

My attempts at conversation were all ignored, but I still tried, refusing to give up, remembering my promise.

"It's such a nice day out, don't you think?" I asked at one point. "So unusual for Forks." He grunted in concurrence and I felt that much more accomplished. My smile wouldn't go away and I might have even giggled a bit, though I sincerely hoped that if I had, he couldn't hear it.

We rode the rest of the way in silence, since both of us had forgotten about the existence of the radio, and no one wanted to talk. It wasn't an entirely bad silence, though, which I was thankful for. It seemed to be a thoughtful silence, which made the atmosphere that much easier to bear. Being alone with him in any form was awkward and scary, and I couldn't stop the thoughts of his latest suicide attempt from running on replay through my head. I found myself praying that he wouldn't try anything, because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop him on my own.

_"Calm down,"_ I reminded myself. _"Everything will be fine."_ I turned into the drive of the cemetery. Once I'd found a place to park, I got out of the car, bringing the flowers I'd purchased with me, and walked toward my mother's grave.

"Why did you bring me here?" Edward asked, getting out of the car and following close behind me. He sounded annoyed, but more curious than anything. He crossed his arms defiantly across his chest and refused to look at me. I knelt in front of the gravestone and placed my mother's favorites—pink carnations—on the grass in front of it.

"Because fresh air will do you good. You've been trapped in a hospital bed for far too long." I kept smiling, but only to make him more comfortable in my presence.

"And you thought that bringing a suicidal teenager to a cemetery would be a good idea?" His tone was sarcastic, as always.

I didn't answer for a moment, instead taking the time to study my mother's headstone, the name, the date, the description at the bottom. It seemed too eerily familiar, but I hadn't been there for years, and it had changed, the color slightly faded from the rain.

"There's more than one reason," I told him, standing up again. I tossed my hair lazily back over my shoulders to get it out of my face. I brushed a little dirt from the top of the headstone and stepped back. "The first having already been said, I'll tell you another." A gust of wind blew into our faces and I turned to face him. My hair blew sideways and I held up a hand to keep it from my eyes. "I thought this might scare you out of it. I mean, wanting to die and all that." I gestured to the rows of gravestones marking the final resting places of hundreds of people. "This is sort of an intimidating sight."

His eyes followed my hand and gazed over them all. His expression never changed, but I could see something in his eyes.

"I mean, if it doesn't work, it doesn't work," I said hastily. "I can't help that. But I know that seeing this scares me silly. I don't want to die."

I was nervous when he didn't say anything. I hadn't exactly planned this outing for that reason, but I figured a few moments after I'd brought him that it seemed a valid reason, and possibly good therapy. Though fear, I'd learned, almost never helped the healing process.

"Are there any more?" He asked. "Reasons, I mean." I looked back to my mother's grave.

RENEE SWAN.

"I wanted you to meet my mother."

Out of the corner of her eye I took in his reaction. My eyes skimmed over his messy bronze sex-god hair and the chiseled line of his jaw and moved to his expressionless face and the eyes that told all his secrets. I couldn't help but smile when I saw his surprise. Knowing that he didn't expect this made me feel empowered, like I still had a chance to turn things around for him. He didn't seem to know what I was going to do next.

"I mean, I know she's dead and I accept that now, so I'm not going to stand here acting creepy and pretending she's talking to me or anything. But…" I trailed off a lamely, searching for words. "Well, this is my mother. Mom," I said jokingly, "meet Edward Cullen. He's a friend of mine, so be nice."

"I thought you _weren't_ going to do that weird stuff." I laughed.

"Sorry, I guess I lied." I linked my hands behind my back and tilted my face to the sun to soak up the warm rays. "It's a little weird to be here. I haven't come since the funeral." My voice was quiet as I spoke. It was just the two of us there and he was close enough that I didn't need to speak loudly. In that particular setting, though, I felt it respectful to keep my voice low.

"Sorry, Mom." I ran my fingers lightly over the top of the stone, looking away from the sky and back toward it. Another breeze ran through my hair and I shivered.

"Are you cold?" Edward asked, eyeing my goose bump-riddled arms. His expression dared me to lie to him, so I just chuckled and nodded.

"A little. My jacket's in the car. I'll get it in a bit." I turned my attention back to the gravestone.

II thought I would be strong enough. I thought I could finally see it without losing control and breaking down, but it was false and I wasn't strong enough. I favored my right foot, balancing it on my toes and shifting my weight to my left side. My shoulders tilted away from my companion, hiding my face and the traitor tears. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, smudging my mascara.

"Sorry, Mom," I whispered again. "I didn't want to cry in front of you."

I hadn't felt more alone in a long time. Standing there in front of what was left of the only female relative I had known all my life, I felt so distant from the world. I loved Charlie, but he wouldn't understand me like my mother had. I couldn't go to him with my "girly problems" as he called them, or tell him about my love life. I couldn't go to him for advice on how to get a boy to notice me, or ask why he didn't like me or anything like that. The closest relationship I had ever had—and could ever have—was gone, and no matter how desperate I was to move on, I still couldn't help but cry as I reminded myself of this fact.

I suddenly felt something on my shoulders and looked up to see Edward. He wasn't looking at me, but at the gravestone, his hand on the jacket that he'd wrapped around my shoulders. "Sorry," I said, putting up my smile again. "I'm being selfish." I was supposed to be helping Edward, not breaking down in front of him. "I probably look ridiculous right now."

"Don't apologize for missing your mother," he told me. He shook his head. "I can't understand this pain you're feeling. But I'm glad that you are." His face contorted. Hastily he added "Don't get me wrong, I don't mean it like that. I just mean…" he huffed a breath, thinking of his next words. His fingers ran through his hair, messing it up even more, bringing an unconscious smile to my lips. "It just shows…that you're real. I really just hate those people who have had everything in life and just take it all for granted. The people who have never felt pain in their lives but they act like they've got it bad." His eyes met mine.

That was probably the longest I'd ever heard him talk for. I was mesmerized by his voice, by his touching, intelligent, perceptive words that drew me in. I got the feeling, in that instant, that we were bonding, building a trust with one another, and I liked the feeling.

I slipped my arms into the jacket and the sleeves covered my hands. It was warm, though, and smelled of Edward.

"Tell me something," I demanded. "Did you think of me that way at first? That I was the type who didn't know what suffering was?" I pushed my hair back behind my ears and stared at the variegated colors on the carnation petals.

"Honestly?" He paused. "No. I knew you were different. I just didn't know what kind of different, and whether or not I should trust it."

"Have you figured that out yet?" I asked. "Have you decided if I'm trustworthy or not?" I looked over at him, gauging his expressions once more, trying to read him. His face was stony.

"Yes." He offered no more explanation, no verdict. Whatever he'd decided he was going to keep to himself, and I wasn't going to push the boundary. I just nodded shortly, blew a kiss to the headstone and turned back to the car. "Let's go out to lunch, shall we?" I put my cheery façade back on and a little bounce in my step. I heard Edward follow a few paces behind me.

I climbed in the driver's seat and closed the door. Seconds later I heard Edward close the other door and our seatbelts sounded in unison. "Y'know, Edward," I said as I turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and died, and I tried again, never looking away from my task. "I've made some decisions too. And I'm not trying to affect yours in any way by saying this." I pumped the accelerator as I turned the key a second time. Still nothing. I removed the key and turned it over. "But I've decided to trust you. So I have to ask you something and I want you to answer me honestly. Can I tell you my story? It has much to do with your situation as well."

He didn't verbally answer me, not that I'd expected him to. He wasn't a vocal person around me, and I wondered what he had originally been like, before all this had happened to him. "What kind of story?" His tone was full of suspicion.

"The story of a little girl, all alone in life." I tried the key once more and the truck roared to life under me. "The story of a little girl named Bella." I turned to him. "The story of a little girl who tried to kill herself."

* * *

**A/N: I AM SO SORRY IT'S BEEN THIS LONG. This story is important not only to me, but to the readers. It deals with something serious, something I don't want to just make an attempt at. I want to focus all my energy on the story when writing it, and get a good result, not half-ass every chapter because someone's desperate to know what happens next. I'm thankful to my readers who keep pestering me and reminded me that there are those who still care about this, though. I made a promise at the beginning and I intend to keep my word. I'm sorry it's taken this long, but I'm on vacation now, and I'm not too busy. I'm also sorry to those whom I spoke to before. I promised you a long chapter and it would seem that I lied. But that just seemed like such a perfect place to end, no? ;) Please review! I worked hard writing, now you work hard reviewing! Next chapter soon, and this time I mean it!**


	13. Chapter 12

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 12

* * *

**

The lighting was dim, and the seats cold and wobbly—the cause being uneven chair legs. All around us the sounds of lighthearted chatter and the clinking of silverware echoed off the walls and ceiling, weaving around the room in such a way that the silence of our own table seemed deafeningly loud. A waitress came by with our orders, setting down mugs of lukewarm coffee and saucers with small servings of dry cake, the frosting cracked with age.

I lifted a fork—the cleanliness of which I questioned—and cut a small bit from the end of the dessert, but didn't eat it. I only moved it around on my plate a little and stared absently out the window at the front of the store as I thought of how to tell my story. How to begin. I rested my chin in my palm, elbow on the table, eye hooded almost sleepily as I was deep in thought. Edward made no move to rush me along.

I lazily watched a few people leave and enter the shop. A petite woman paid for her purchase and left in a rush, only to bump into a taller man at the door. Apologies were uttered under breaths as the two carried on, acting as though the encounter hadn't happened; the girl behind the cash register rang up another customer, who slipped a few spare bills into the tip jar; a young couple sat together in the corner, leaning across the table to be near each other, speaking in hushed voiced.

I leaned back in my chair and set the fork down on the edge of the stained china plate.

It wasn't until after my mother's death and my own attempt at a similar end that I began to notice the small things like this. Menial details were blown to unrealistic proportions before my very eyes. Did it matter that the snotty woman at the two-person table in front of the window didn't like the coffee? No, but I couldn't help but notice the distasteful expression on her face. It's amazing what near-death experiences can do to one's perception.

I allowed my eyes to travel across the table to the boy that sat there. His bronze hair was disheveled and he looked as though he'd dressed in the first things he'd grabbed off his floor this morning, despite his mother's best efforts to get him to dress nice. Somehow he still looked presentable, sane, normal. Looking around the dingy, poorly-lit room, he was the last person I would have guessed to be suicidal. Guess that just goes to show you can't judge a book by its cover.

I picked up my cup by the little ring of a handle and brought it to my lips. The tea was bitter, though I'd added two packets of sweet'n low, not caring that the saccharine could give me cancer. As I set the mug back down I saw the lipgloss mark I'd left.

"It was shortly after my mother died—" I purposely said 'died' instead of 'killed herself' "—and I wasn't…wasn't really all that straight in the head. I mean, it's not unheard of for a child to get a little weird after the passing of a parent."

Edward nodded, understanding what I was trying to say and silently urging me on.

"Needless to say, I wasn't my normal self, and after that happened, I changed in an irreversible way. Images of finding her were burned into my mind. I couldn't sleep for weeks. I didn't eat. More than anything I just missed my mother."

I paused here, trying to get myself back on track. I had strayed a little from the point.

"My father missed her too, but they had been having problems. I think they were planning to split. Their feelings weren't the same as they had been or something like that. He wasn't _in_ love with her anymore, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt." I furrowed my brow. "But he didn't take it the same way I did.

"I stayed home from school and I missed the finals that year. It happened right before summer vacation, so I didn't fall very far behind and I didn't get held back. I didn't do anything for months." The memories were really starting to come back to me. These memories came more in the form of feelings than events, since the most significant thing about this point in time was the emotional trauma. I closed my eyes to steady myself against the sudden flood and took a few breaths.

"It came as a real shock to me, so I didn't even accept it for a while. I acted like nothing had happened, because it hadn't sunk in yet. It didn't feel like she was gone, it just felt like she wasn't there at the moment. It took a while for me to really grasp that she was never coming back." I swirled my mug, the last dregs of tea sloshing back and forth. "So I was basically a vegetable for a while, but once I realized that it had _actually_ happened, I snapped and lost it. All my feelings kinda just came at me from every direction all at once and I didn't know how to cope. My father and I were close, but he wasn't the most comforting person to be around, especially since he was the other parent in this, and damaged just as much as I was. He knew how to take the loss a little better though, so it was easier on him."

Someone walking behind me bumped my chair, throwing me off for a second. I quickly found my place again, not caring that I hadn't gotten an apology from whatever stranger it had been.

"I felt like I was suffocating. The funeral happened three days after the fact, and my…attempt was about a month after that. The time in between was like limbo. I didn't know what the hell was going on, it was like I had blacked out for four weeks. I lost my perception of time, forgot things easily, which is why I didn't eat. I simply forgot that I had a need for food and only ate when Charlie forced food into me. And then one morning I woke up and it hit me like a truck. I remember that morning very clearly. I woke up and the first thing I thought was 'my mother is dead'. I remember understanding that fully, and that I burst into tears for the first time since she'd died. I cried all day without a break, and then I was sick from dehydration for a few days afterward."

I chuckled humorlessly to myself as the waitress brought an iced tea I'd ordered moments before. I took the lemon and put it between my lips, sucking gently and puckering my face.

Edward was still staring at me intently, his eyes burning into my face. He wasn't looking at my eyes or really any feature in particular that I could tell. His eyes flickered all over the place, taking in my whole countenance. Surprisingly I didn't feel self-conscious with him. I slumped my shoulders as I continued.

"It really started after I got over my little bout of dehydration. I got up and took a shower and when I wiped the steam from the mirror I saw what I'd become and I felt like crying all over again, knowing my mother would have a stroke. She'd always been one for keeping up appearances. At that point my complexion had gone grayish and my eyes gaunt, lifeless. There were huge bruise-like bags under my eyes. Basically I looked like a bulimic girl fresh into drug rehab." In my head I pictured my face, and couldn't help but compare it to celebrities with drug problems and eating disorders; sickly faces plastered over magazines in the lines at the supermarket.

"And I knew my mother wouldn't like what I had become. She wouldn't want to be associated with me for looking like that. And I wanted to die. So I stole my mother's sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet and I brought a glass of water into my room. I wrote out a little note to my father, saying I was sorry and it wasn't his fault, it was mine and blah blah blah. I put six pills in my palm and I swallowed them."

"What went wrong?" Edward asked. "If you're still here today it couldn't possibly have worked. What happened?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Maybe they were too old to work properly, or I took too many and my body rejected them. I woke up two days later with Charlie standing over me, asking me if I was hungry. I might not have taken enough. I just slept for two straight days. My father hadn't even found the suicide note. It was a failure. But it was just my first attempt. There were more following not long after."

He was silent for a moment as he thought, lips pursed like he wanted to say something.

"I…I'd like to hear more. If you feel like you can tell me." His eyes betrayed how serious he was and I smiled wanly before I mustered up the courage to keep going. I mentally tried to put all the important events in order.

"After that first try there were two more. One almost worked." I was working on my mental timeline as I spoke, just blurting things out as soon as I got them sorted. "Two months after my pill adventure I hit another low. I was more depressed than ever and my father took me to get a prescription because he'd never seen it get that bad. I was put on Prozac, but it didn't make me feel any better so most days I just didn't take it at all. I suppose that was my first mistake. Because I didn't take my antidepressants, my depression didn't go away. Go figure, right? And since I wasn't getting better, I hadn't stopped being suicidal. And then I tried to kill myself again."

I pulled up my sleeve and turned my arm to show him the faded scars on the inside of my tender flesh. They were darker than the rest of my complexion; thin, straight, parallel lines across my veins. His eyes widened for a moment, as though he hadn't been expecting them to be real, and I covered them quickly again.

"This was the same method my mother used. I suppose that's why I tried it. Of course, it wasn't anything deadly. I have a low threshold for pain it turns out," I chuckled darkly at this. "None of the cutes were very deep. I never even got close to my goal. My father never found out about this one, either."

The waitress came back with the bill, which we split after a few moments of arguing over who would pay—seems that even when suicidal Edward is a gentleman—and we pulled on our jackets and left, opting for a walk in the park while we continued our talk, or rather, my monologue. It didn't start up again right away, and instead I was quiet, trying to divert my thoughts to something else, like the weather or the flowers lining the winding path we walked. I had almost forgotten what we were talking about when Edward brought me back to reality.

"And the third attempt?" It seemed he hadn't forgotten.

"The third attempt…" the third attempt was more complicated, though it had a simple execution. I had no idea where to start on that one. "It's difficult to explain without getting weird." I ducked my head, feeling my face glowing red with shame as I thought back. "It's far more recent and probably illegal."

"You don't have to tell me if—"

"No, it's alright. You just have to swear you won't tell anyone. We talk in confidence, right?" I looked up at him—he was several inches taller than I—with imploring eyes, begging him not to contradict me. He nodded shortly and mumbled and 'of course' under his breath like it was the most obvious thing on earth and I heaved a sigh of relief. "You know who my father is, yes?"

"Charlie Swan, chief of police," he replied. I nodded.

"Right. And what do all policemen have." He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. "And before you just say something random, think what they might have that would tie into my story. What could they have that someone could use to try and kill themselves with?"

He didn't even need a second to think about it. "You were going to shoot yourself?" His voice was incredulous. I smiled sadly and nodded, taking my gaze away from him, not wanting to see his reactions as I spoke. I just wanted to get through the story and move onto his, if he felt like trusting me.

"It turns out that my father's old habit of unloading the gun before coming in the house hasn't been lost yet. There aren't even bullets in the house that I could have used. But this was the closest one…"

_The gun was heavy and cold in my palm. Charlie was upstairs in the shower and I had sneaked his gunbelt from the door. I stared at it intently. _

_This could be my chance. I laid out the suicide note I'd written long ago and before I could allow second thoughts, I raised the pistol to my temple and pulled…_

"There was a little 'click' but since there was nothing in it, nothing happened." I shrugged my shoulders. "That was six months ago. Much more recent than the others. But it really made me realize what I was doing. And it turned me off from that type of thing. For the time being."

In the park there was a small gazebo used for lovers on dates that was unoccupied. Deciding to get out of the sun (though it was only shining through the trees), we ducked under the small roof for refuge and sat along the old bench inside.

"But enough about me," I said. "Let's talk about something else." I turned to him with a smile, head inclined slightly to one side. My feet didn't quite touch the ground if I sat all the way back on the bench and so I swung my legs, feeling very much like a child, sitting on my hands and swinging my legs. "What do you want to talk about?"

Edward didn't meet my eyes. I waited patiently and allowed him to think, not daring to push him after establishing what seemed to be a mutual sense of trust. I was glad that I could share with him a little of my past, getting a load off my chest while simultaneously proving that I was not just some stranger trying to make him feel better. I'd been through things as well. I didn't think it would be that day, but I was hoping that we were building the trust that would eventually allow him to tell me about his worries and fears—tell me why he tried to take his life.

I didn't think it would happen so fast.

When he opened his mouth to answer my question, his words came in a rush so fast that I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.

"I want to tell you now. My story. If you'll listen."

* * *

**A/N: FINALLY! The long-awaited update. I think I've gotten rusty! D: I am SO SORRY that this took so long. Summer started about a week and a half ago, but it was surprisingly difficult to find my muse for this story. I also had previous engagements regarding end of the school year parties and family birthdays and such, but enough excuses! I am back in the game! Just letting you know from here on out, though that my my updates will probably be inconsistent. Not that they haven't already been, haha. But seriously. I have many other in-progress stories on my profile under my name that I would like to finish before the end of summer. I've joined a multi-author project in another fandom, I have another story that I'm very serious about (and in the process of editing all 13 or so chapters) and many ideas that like to rape my brain at random times, requiring me to write or type the summary down immediately. I get inspired by the most ridiculous things! Can you believe the Elizabeth Smart story gave me the writer's itch? (No, that's not and STD, lol, it's what I call that unbearable urge to write something when you've suddenly gotten an idea). Not that it would be a bad story, but things like that make me believe that I'm a sick person. I probably am. Look what I write about. Tsk tsk. Ah well, please enjoy this chapter and all the rest to come. I'm not sure entirely how I want to end this yet but I think we're about half done already. It's gone by so quickly. Thank you all for your loyalty, and once again (I always end up saying this) I'm sorry that it took me so much longer than I thought! Stay strong!**

**~Jazzy.**


	14. Chapter 13

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 13

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**

_"Her name was Christa, and I thought I loved her."_

-**Edward's Story**-

She was the one person at school who didn't care what others thought of her and I found that unbelievably sexy. She herself was a petite blond with a good shape and fairly good taste in fashion and hair, so no one was trash-talking. She presented herself well, and whenever I looked at her I caught her with a smile on.

She had no reason to fear others talking badly of her, since she was beautiful, smart, kind, funny, and though she had no real close friends, there wasn't a single person in the school who disliked her. She was also artistic, one of the best in class. She loved to paint, and her subject of preference was the sky on a cloudy day.

The first time I spoke to her was at lunch. She'd run in a little late and slid into line behind me. We acknowledged each other with a smile and a nod and then moved our trays down the counter to allow questionable food to be piled on. When we reached the desserts—optional and self-serve—there was only one piece of key lime pie left. My favorite. And apparently hers as well.

We both reached for it at the same time and recoiled when our hands almost collided. Laughing nervously, our eyes made contact again. Deciding to be a gentleman, I let her take it. And she smiled dazzlingly at me.

Her voice sounded like angels when she thanked me, and I looked away to make sure I wasn't blushing. We paid and ended up sitting next to each other through lunch, since there was only one unoccupied table left, and all other chairs had been stolen away.

We ate in silence at first, every once in a while looking at the other. She would giggle when I caught her staring and I would blush and look away, nearly choking on my food when she caught me. And finally she decided to forego the stupid shyness and just introduce herself.

She wiped her palm on her jacket before holding it out to me. "Christa Peters."

I took her small hand in my own and shook it gently. "Edward Cullen."

And our friendship began there.

From then on, we would sit together at lunch, having light conversation about classes or something that had happened earlier that day. Occasionally, when there was no other topic available, we would hypothesize what the lunch was actually made of that day, and most times we ended up losing our appetites because of our crazy theories.

Once we became more comfortable around each other, our little talks got into the more personal. We discussed favorite books and movies, songs, and traded scar stories. She was surprisingly unfeminine most times, and I didn't actually mind it, but was a little shocked to see how different someone was once you got to know them.

My favorite story of hers was how she got the tiny crescent shaped scar under her left eye. It was white, faded and barely noticeable, but it left a small dimple when she smiled. She told me she'd gotten it when her older brother pushed her off the deck of their house one summer. The story itself was nothing special, but I loved the distinguishing way the scar laid across her visage, making her more beautiful.

And we were close. Closer than I had ever been with anyone else. I hadn't had many friends since middle school, and to say that this was a nice change for me was an understatement.

However we were nothing more than that—just friends. At the time I wasn't looking for anything more and she never gave off the impression that she was either. For the time being we just enjoyed each other's company, and I had the pleasure of knowing that I was her best friend. There was no one else that she was as close to. It made me feel special. And I hoped that she felt the same for knowing the same.

Though, as time wore on, she turned out to be a little different than I thought. She was a party girl without a doubt and I entered our friendship with full knowledge of that, and no objections. But when she would take me along with her to some of these parties and introduce me to people she would then leave me alone with strangers to get drunk. And of course I would always bail her out later and drive her home, clean the vomit off her shoes and all of that, but I tried to talk her out of what could turn into—if it wasn't already—severe alcoholism. Christa would always promise that she'd take it easy, but her problem only worsened.

It got to the point where she was getting smashed before we even got to the party. Multiple times I had to stop her from going altogether, which ended up in a small fight and an apology from me; an apology I really didn't need to say at all. But, out of desperation to keep my only friend, I would always say "I'm sorry" and she would always forgive me. But then the cycle would start up again, and I would end up doing it all over.

I didn't pry into her life. I didn't think she'd want me to. But I suppose now, after thinking back on it, if I had I would've known that her dad was an alcoholic. I would've known why she started all this in the first place. I would've known that she was incapable of stopping on her own.

I know this doesn't sound like anything to get suicidal about, but that's because I haven't gotten there yet. Things get worse starting on Christmas Eve last year. She was going to a party, and, of course, getting drunk. I stopped her. I took away her booze. But since I was in her house, it was also her father's booze. I got kicked out by a screaming, drunken man and his daughter. But I'd already poured it all down the drain, so I knew that at least for the moment the two of them were safe.

My family went away for the remainder of Christmas break, and I feared the worst for Christa and her father, but when I came back, things were looking up. Her father had been admitted to a small rehabilitation center about a day's drive away, and she had been placed with a relative on the other side of town. She told me that she had cleaned up because of everything that I had done and said to her and that her father was a huge factor in her drinking. And I believed her.

For the next month everything was going well. She was clean and sober and didn't drink at parties, though she didn't go to many. I was starting to think that things were looking up for us and I even asked her out. She said yes and we laughed about how long it had taken to get around to that.

For the next three months she and I were an item. We did everything a normal couple would do, but we took it slow and we never went…all the way, if you catch my drift. But the point is that we were close. She was the one person I thought I loved most in the world and I thought she loved me as well.

She was a sweet girl, thoughtful, nice, polite to my parents, friends with my siblings, and an all around good person and I was thrilled to know her.

But while things had gone well for so long you know they had to start going wrong as well. There was one month before summer vacation and she decided to start up drinking again. Her father came home from rehab and it seemed that he hadn't changed much at all. So in his return he brought alcoholism back into Christa's life.

Things returned to the way they had been. It was almost as if I hadn't been there. She never listened to me, and a wedge was driven between us. She wanted to be left alone, but I had no intention of doing so. Looking back on it, maybe I should have. Things might have turned out differently if I'd just let her be.

But, being her best friend and boyfriend at the time, I insisted that she stop drinking. She didn't listen and I changed my demands to 'call me if you're drunk and you need a ride' because I wasn't going to have her killing herself, and I wasn't a pushy enough person to make her stop altogether. I thought I was making progress, but I was stupid.

She was angry with me, so I don't know why I thought she'd listen to me. She was that spiteful kind of person who would disobey you to make a point, and that's just what she did.

_Bella looked across the table at me after my prolonged silence. I hesitantly met her eyes and was relieved to find no traces of… well I don't know what I was expecting. After a moment her hand stretched across the table toward mine, and her warm fingers rested lightly on my knuckles. The contact was soothing. _

_"It's okay," she whispered. "Take your time."_

_I nodded, taking a breath. If I stopped now I wouldn't start again._

It really started one weekend when I drove over to see her and she was drinking. That in itself wasn't surprising. I took the bottle away from her and her dad chased me out of the house for making his daughter unhappy. I shouted back that it was his fault she was like that, his fault that she was drunk all the time. Once his inebriated mind understood what I was saying, he got his gun and threatened to shoot if I didn't leave. So I got out of that house.

But I decided I was taking Christa with me. We needed to talk about a few things. She didn't protest. She was probably thinking of telling me off or breaking up with me and I would have preferred one of those. Both. I'd rather have both than what happened.

I was driving a little fast, like I usually do, but this was fast even for me. I was speeding down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic. I was reckless. I was stupid. Christa was in the passenger seat flipping through the radio stations until she found something she liked. She was drunk off her ass and she wanted to "dance."

I calmly explained to her that we were in a car that was moving. I was driving at in no position to dance with her, nor did I want to, since we were fighting. I must have said it with a bad tone to my voice because the next thing I knew she was bawling against the window.

I took my eyes off the road to make her stop. I reached over to pat her back, make her feel better.

_I closed my eyes and took a breath. Bella wasn't rushing me, but I needed a moment to set my memories straight. _

She reached over and she grabbed the wheel of the car. It caught me so offguard that I couldn't stop it as she pulled it toward her, sub-sequentially turning the car. I tried to turn back but it was too late.

We spun a hard right until we were stretched across two lanes of oncoming traffic and a car slammed into the passenger side.

Christa Marie Peters died that night.

* * *

**A/N: K there you go. Edward's story in his POV. :D The next chapter--whenever I get around to that, haha--will resume the normal style from Bella's POV and get out of flashback mode. Please enjoy this, I know the idea is very outdated, but Edward seemed like the kind of person to be suicidal if someone close to him died, especially if that person's death was partly his fault (or so he believes). Hmmm. I wonder where I got that idea *coughNEWMOONcough* Speaking of which, the movie comes out in November, right? Who's pumped? I went to Twilight with a bunch of my buds and I think we're doing the same this year. So who else has plans?  
**


	15. Chapter 14

**M E S S Y  
cHaPtEr 14**

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"I know it's not what you want to hear right now," I began slowly. A few minutes had passed since Edward has ceased speaking, and after absorbing his story and processing all the information, I was ready to give my two cents. "I'm sure many people have already told you this. But it's not your fault."

And it wasn't. It couldn't have been easy taking care of a drunken girl in the passenger seat endangering both of their lives while driving, and of course, when said chronically inebriated female grabs hold of the steering wheel? He's lucky to be alive.

I looked down to my lap, where my hands rested. I had withdrawn them from Edward's when my fingers had started shaking. Clenching my fists, I steadied them and reached for my cup.

"Thanks," he said dully. "But you're right. I don't want those words."

To him I'm sure they felt meaningless. He had convinced himself of his guilt, and self-pity wouldn't allow the blame to fall elsewhere. Under any other circumstances, such self-pity would have made him an unlikeable character, but given the cards dealt, I could forgive him that much.

My fingers danced along my mug, but I never drank; the coffee inside was cold. I needed to occupy my hands so my mind could think; I was still mulling over some of the details.

She pulled the wheel. The other cars slammed into him.

This was Forks; how many cars were there on the freeway? And why were they driving so close on his tail? There should have been ample room to swerve.

And suddenly I was angry. My brow furrowed, my bottom lip twitched, and my hands slammed the porcelain onto the tabletop.

Edward did not jump. His eyes calmly followed my little actions, as if following my train of thought. He seemed to expect my outrage.

"No," I seethed. "It's not your fault. Something is wrong there. This town has a population of just over three thousand, there shouldn't have been anyone on the road that late, or if there was, then, statistically they wouldn't have been anywhere near you!"

The stares coming from every corner of the diner shut me up. I called the waitress over for our bill, suggesting to Edward that we go elsewhere. He readily agreed, and pulled his wallet out for the bill. Before I could refuse, the girl in the tiny uniform had whisked it away.

When she returned with our receipt, we left. Jackets buttoned and hands in pockets.

"You know I'm right," I said stubbornly as soon as the door swung shut behind us.

"Bella, statistics won't change what happened. If there was a one-in-twenty chance of this happening, then that must have been the one." He ruffled his hair back when the wind whipped through it. "I don't like it. I blame myself because there's no one else at fault. There's no one else who _could be_ at fault. The fact of the matter," his face looked bitter and his voice matched, "is that there were a number of opportunities for me to do something else; to call someone else to take care of her. Hell, I could have put her in the backseat instead. I keep playing it over and over in my head. There were dozens of possibilities. This didn't have to end the way it did."

"But it did," I finished for him. I still didn't like that explanation. It wasn't his fault. A number of different factors played into an event, and mathematically—even though I was never really good at math—it was almost impossible for that to happen the way it did.

Of course, that made it sound like I suspected foul play. Perhaps it was because I was the daughter of the police chief. Or I was just paranoid. Or I just didn't want to accept that it _could_ be his fault.

I sighed. Peeking over at Edward's face, now gone blank and somewhat melancholy, I decided it was time for a change of subject.

"So," I said, drawing out the vowel. "Your mom seemed very nice."

He nodded.

"I didn't see your father, though." I hoped I wasn't touching restricted ground. From what I understood his father was still in the picture, and still happily married to his mother, but if there had been a fight since his discharge, I might not be helping at all.

"He's a doctor," Edward supplied.

This time I nodded. "On call then?" I assumed. I didn't know all the jargon for hospital statuses but I thought that sounded right. "Does he have a practice or does he work in the ER?"

"ER mostly. I don't see him much, but we're close."

"Siblings?"

"Four. All foster. They've sort of…coupled off, you might say."

I tried to imagine that scenario. Living in the same house and being almost-legal siblings with the person you were seeing? It was almost incestuous. But for some reason I wasn't uncomfortable with the idea. As long as they loved each other, that was all that mattered.

"And where are they?" I hadn't noticed until then how nosy I sounded. Edward, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind; perhaps thankful for a change of subject.

"They still live with our parents, but recently they've been spending…as much time as possible outside of the house. Alice likes to shop, Jasper's always following her like a puppy, Emmet likes sports and other shows of manliness, and Rosalie likes watching him be macho almost as much as he likes doing it." He chuckled a little. It was evident that he was fond of them.

"When was…" I faltered, looking for the right words. He cocked his head a little in my direction, but kept his eyes trained on the ground in front of him. "When was the last time you were all in one place?" I asked, the gears in my head turning, but I was feeling mischievous and tried not to let it show on my face.

"Every other weekend my parents used to take us all on a hiking trip," Edward told me. I noticed a sparkle in his eyes when he mentioned it. It was dull, but there.

"And you don't do that anymore?"

"Not since the accident," he answered shortly. I winced. Oops.

"Why don't you try to plan a family outing? Call your siblings, talk to them." Well, it sounded a lot more advice-like in my head. "They're your family. They'll come back." I avoided using the words "forgive you" because I didn't believe it was his fault at all, as I'd made perfectly clear, and I refused to even _hint_ at anything else.

But Edward just shook his bronze head. "It's not that easy."

I tried to pry more of an explanation out of him, but he wouldn't budge. Eventually—long after we'd reached my truck and began the long drive to the Cullen residence and I was forced to allow him to go home—I gave up.

"Fine, then," I huffed in defeat. "If you won't try to get back in touch with your family, then I command you—" he raised an eyebrow at this and I just nodded "—yes! Command you! To go inside and have a nice chat with your mother. Or maybe watch a movie with her and Carlisle." I put the gear into reverse and looked over my shoulder to pull out of the driveway, and before Edward could protest, I shot him another look. "And yes, I will be speaking with her to check if you've followed my orders."

Then I waved goodbye politely—though I felt very much the dictator—and drove off to my own home, the plans I'd started earlier growing in my head.

* * *

It took two rings for Esme to pick up the phone, and then I heard her perfect, musical voice filling my head.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Esme," I replied, my voice sounding a little strangled because I was holding the receiver between my shoulder and ear. My hands were busy making Charlie's and my dinner. "It's me."

"Oh, Bella!" I could almost _hear_ her smile on the other end. It was infectious, and a grin spread across my face as well. "How are you, dear?"

"I'm fine," I replied politely, and before I lost myself in her wonderful, mothering tone, I got down to business. "Is Edward around?"

"No, he's up in his room catching up on the school work he missed. Would you like me to call him down?"

"No, no, that's fine. I actually called to talk to you, but it's better if he doesn't overhear."

"Oh?"

My knife hand slipped and I cut my thumb open, swearing softly as I saw the blood bead on my fingertip. "Yeah. I was wondering if you could give me some information. I'm planning something for Edward that I think will really help him, but if he finds out, then it won't work, so can I ask that you keep this on the DL?"

Surprisingly enough, Esme understood the jargon and agreed—very seriously—that she would most certainly keep it a secret, and then asked what I wanted to know.

I had a few questions, but I could only ask one at a time if I wanted any real answers. So I took a moment to think as I rifled through the cabinet above the sink for a band-aid and peroxide while I sorted my thoughts. Thankfully, Esme didn't rush me; she knew I was still there, knew I was thinking.

Finally, I settled on one. Wrapping the foam band-aid around my throbbing digit, I grabbed the phone with my free hand and held it more comfortably against my head. I dug around the junk drawer until I came up with a ballpoint pen and a wrinkled pad of post-it notes. I clicked the pen open and rested my hand on the paper, poised to write.

"Can you tell me the numbers of his siblings?"

* * *

**A/N: Okay, okay, okay, stop yelling at me! I know, I know! It's been nearly four months since I promised you that update! But look! There it is! Above me!**

**This is usually the part where I whine about my life and give a bunch of excuses as to why it took me so damn long, but I decided to skip that this time, and instead get to work on the next chapter, which all of you patient, kind people more than certainly deserve.**

**I'd also like to say that I don't anticipate that many more chapters after this one. I've already got the rest of the story mapped out. I just need to tweak my ideas for the ending and get cracking. But god only knows how long that will take. You know what kind of a history I have. But plan on four or five at most, maybe not even that many. And there will be an excited twist. ;)  
**

**I'd also like to bring attention to the fact that, many months ago, I was submitted for a story review request on "The Secret Twilight Garden" blog. I got a pretty nice review, and I'd like to thank whoever requested they review my story, and I'd like to thank whoever read it (she does under the pseudonym of "Lillie Cullen"). I'll try to post a link on my profile at some point. In the mean time...**

**Oh, and please forgive the above mess. It's short. And I didn't proofread. It's been so long since I completed a chapter, I sort of jumped the gun and went straight to publishing. I'll try to be more vigilant about that in the future. No promises.  
**


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